


Down Comes The Night

by red_crate



Series: Dig Down [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Ableist Language, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety, BAMF Stiles, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Captivity, Case Fic, Concussions, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Gunshot Wounds, Hair-pulling, Invasion of Privacy, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Touching, POV Stiles, Post-Season/Series 04, Sexual Content, Slow Build, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski is Eighteen Years Old, Vomiting, eichen house, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-11-03 23:37:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 68,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10977768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_crate/pseuds/red_crate
Summary: “Bringing me trashy books and complaining to the administration about my treatment,” Peter looks back at Stiles, blue eyes sharp, “are you trying to be myfriend, Stiles? After Scott and your father had me locked in here?” He arches a skeptical eyebrow.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> •Undying love to DarkHunterJenn & Twisted_Mind for being my sounding boards and support. This fic wouldn't be what it is without them. 
> 
>  
> 
> •notes, & trigger warnings in the end notes.

 

 

“Stiles,” Peter's voice is rough when he speaks. The word is jagged on his lips. His heads lolls to the side a bit, and his lids hang low over his unfocused eyes. It must be remembered scent that tells Peter who has come to visit him all these weeks later, because he sure as shit doesn't look lucid enough to recognize who he is seeing.

Stiles licks his lips and taps his fingers on the peeling laminated table that separates them. “Yeah. Stiles.” He glowers, but it's short-lived because the man before him is a husk of the werewolf Stiles knows. Eyes skirting towards the other side of cell, Stiles demands, “how much shit have you been pumping into him?”

It's not a guard Stiles recognizes. He's short and stocky like a bulldog, but he doesn't look especially mean, just bored and a little stiff. The man takes a breath like he's going to answer Stiles, but then he quickly looks away as he squeezes his hands tightly where they're clasped in front of him. His jaw twitches, and he fixes his gaze to middle distance, ignoring Stiles’ question.

“Doesn't matter,” Stiles mutters to himself. He sits back in his seat, and surveys the room since Peter isn't exactly up for lively conversation. Peter stays slumped in his chair, breathing erratic but otherwise still.

There is nothing on the walls, no pictures or ripped papers. The bed is more of a cot, but it's firm looking and made up with clean linens. Nothing about this room looks lived in, except for the painted over divots in the cinder blocks just above the bed. He hadn't noticed them when he first looked, but now he can see someone, at some point, had been keeping count. There are no windows; the only light comes from a harshly lit fenced in fluorescent bulb attached to the middle of the ceiling. Stiles bites at his thumb, knee jiggling.

He doesn't want to be here.

“This is kind of a let down. I was supposed to come here and taunt you. There's no fun in that when you're little more than a vegetable though.” Stiles can feel the anger in him swell up from the seemingly endless ocean inside. “Fuck,” he curses with feeling and bounces up out of his seat to pace along the width of the room, no more than twelve feet.

Peter’s eyes are closed when Stiles looks back at him. Asleep or just too tired to keep his eyelids open, Stiles doesn't know. It pisses him off. He should be home, studying for his exam Monday. Instead, he'd finally worried over the idea enough to come check on the werewolf, make sure he knows no one is letting their guard when it comes to him. Finding Peter practically comatose causes a mix of emotions that Stiles can't and doesn't want to examine right now. The overlying one though, that's anger. And it rolls through him, seeking release but Stiles pushes it down as far as he can.

The guard straightens up, hands coming to his sides. “You can either calm down, or leave. We don't need you agitating the patient.”

Stiles’ gaze slides over Peter again. “Patient, right.” He steps away from the table to go, but then moves back so he can lean across it and get into Peter's face. When Peter doesn't look at him, he slaps his hand down on the table. Peter grimaces like the sound hurt his ears, but his eyes stay shut. Stiles speaks lowly, glaring at first Peter, then the guard. “I'm coming back.”

“I'm coming back, and next time I want him coherent.” Stiles stalks up to the guard, ‘Anderson’ his little name tag says. “Or, the sheriff department might need to be alerted that there have been some abuses going on here.”

Anderson’s eyes widen a little, but he doesn't flinch when he turns to open the thick metal door. “I was told he was uncooperative.” He sounds defensive.

Peter stays in his seat and doesn't bodily acknowledge Stiles’ threatening promise or his departure. To Anderson, Stiles asks, “how many prisoners do you have down here who are cooperative?”

 

* * *

 

 

“Why would you go see Peter?” Scott is incredulous when Stiles asks what he knows about the wolfsbane the doctor uses to sedate Peter.

Stiles hitches his backpack up on his shoulder. “Uh, because the dude went insane last time he was hospitalized? He managed to create a deadpool while in a coma; do you really want to wait and see what he's capable of while in supernatural prison?”

He'd spent Sunday studying and thinking. He worked on his homework as he mulled over the situation with Peter. Imprisoning Peter in Eichen House had been Scott’s idea after Derek disappeared. Stiles, on the other hand, had pushed for a more permanent solution to the problem, a solution that ended six feet underground, chopped up and burnt. But Stiles isn't the alpha, so his proposition had been immediately squashed. With no one capable of leashing Peter and Scott unwilling to kill him, that left Eichen as the only viable option.

It wasn't a good option.

Scott makes a frustrated noise. “Fine. But you shouldn't go alone.”

Stiles stops next to Scott when they get to their lockers. Kira is there and she gives Stiles a little wave after kissing Scott hello on the cheek. “Go where? What's going on? Oh, no. Did someone die?” She looks apprehensive as she bites her bottom lip.

“That's what I'm trying to keep from happening!” Stiles leans back against the lockers as Scott spins his combination lock. “Who the heck am I supposed to take with me?” When Kira makes a frustrated sound, Stiles sighs and catches her up on the conversation. “I visited Peter last night.” He knew Scott was going to react like this, but it's still annoying to have his best friend questioning him.

Kira makes a face. “But isn't that a bad idea? He's evil.”

Scott turns to Stiles after getting the books out that he needs. “Take Lydia with you if you go again.” Stiles rolls his eyes. To Kira, Scott says, “Stiles thinks we should keep an eye on Peter personally.” He sounds weary, and it rankles Stiles just a bit.

“Oh,” Kira nods. “I guess that makes sense.” She takes Scott's hand and tells Stiles, “you should take him something to read, to occupy his mind.”

Stiles had thought of that already. But if the staff keeps Peter in the same state he was in as the other night there wouldn't be much use in it. There hadn't been a TV in the cell he saw Peter in, so Redbox-ing is probably out of the question too. Anyway, it's not up to Stiles to provide entertainment for that asshole. The only thing Stiles wants to do is make sure Peter doesn't go any more crazy than he was, and keep an eye on anything Peter might be plotting. If a coma wasn't enough to keep Peter from wreaking havoc from the past, then what could happen while he's trapped in a supernatural mental hospital wing and pumped full of who knows what kinds of poison to subdue and alter his mind?

“Yeah, I'll be sure to bring something light like Edgar Allan Poe with me.” Stiles sighs when he sees the brief flash of hurt on Kira's face. “The guy was a vegetable. I don't know if they're going to ease up on wolfsbane or whatever they're giving him now that someone is going to be coming by to see him. As far as Lydia goes,” Stiles turns to Scott, “she's a banshee. In case you forgot, Peter used her to freaking come back from the dead. He used Meredith to put out a hit list on every single supernatural creature in Beacon Hills. Giving him access to her? Probably not a good idea.”

Scott clenches his jaw and shakes his head as the three of them head for class. “I don't want you going by yourself, Stiles. We're not—we shouldn't be splitting up.”

“Look, Peter is practically a vegetable right now. I'm just a regular human. No abilities, nothing he could try and manipulate. If things get hairy, we'll figure something out.” Stiles doesn't voice the course of action he's already decided on. It's better if Scott doesn't know, so he can't tell Stiles no.

“I don't like it,” Scott mutters, but he doesn't say anything else.

Stiles hitches up his bag again. “Yeah, well…” and sighs. Kira looks worried but she doesn't say anything.

 

* * *

 

Lydia corners Stiles in the library later that morning. He's using his free period to catch up on the work he's missed from skipping class. Lydia has her laptop with her and her satchel looks weighed down. He's obviously not the only one trying to stay ahead. Malia has class this period, no free ones, because she is under a crunch to complete enough credits to advance to twelfth grade with the rest of them.

“You are stupid.” She says succinctly as she sits down beside Stiles and crosses her legs.

Stiles rescues his highlighter and composition notebook before Lydia sweeps them to the floor to make room for her things. “Well, gee, thanks so much for that, Lydia. Please, sit down. Keep saying nice things.”

“You. Are stupid.” Lydia powers up her laptop. “Peter is insane. He's locked up, away from us, and what do you do? You visit him. It's like you're looking for trouble.” She snaps the words out, clearly unimpressed with Stiles.

“Lydia, come on. You know what that place is like. If anyone could figure out a way to use it to his advantage, it's Peter.” Stiles runs a hand through his hair. His textbook is staring up at him, and he isn't comprehending anything on its pages. At least he's only got half his exams left before school lets out for summer break.

Lydia looks brittle for the briefest of moments before she lets out a quiet breath. “I know.” She agrees with him, it seems, on some level. “He's never going to stop.” Her voice is soft but unyielding, sure of what she's saying. Stiles supposes if anyone knows that to be sure, it's definitely Lydia.

She is tapping away on the keyboard, but Lydia turns her head towards Stiles when she speaks quietly, eyes trained on the screen. “Be careful, Stiles.”

 

* * *

  
Stiles wishes Derek were still here. Or even told them where he was going, if he was planning to come back. As frustratingly useless as Derek can be, because he apparently didn't learn shit from his family growing up, the guy was pretty good with dealing with Peter. At least, when it came to mostly sane, resurrected Peter. Stiles is mildly pissed off at Derek and his sister for running off and leaving Peter alone in the first place. After all, look what happened as a direct result: every fucking thing.

Stiles has had a lot of time to think things over, and Derek, while tragic, brought a lot of shit to the party.

It makes sense though. Derek cutting loose as soon as he has a chance. People have patterns and habits, even if Derek had tried to stick it out this time, after the alpha pack decimated the small one Derek had been building. He stayed and he helped Scott and Stiles. Now though, he's...whatever he is and the dust is settling down. Stiles can see why Derek must have figured it was as good a chance as he might ever have to get out and start fresh.

Still, that leaves them stuck with Peter with no good insight on him or anyone that might have a shred of leverage against him.

Stiles walks around the abandoned loft. A fine sheet of dust has started gathering on everything. Besides that, he place looks almost exactly the same as it had the last time Stiles was here. A cracked bar of soap is by the bathroom sink and there are half empty bottles of shampoo and conditioner in the shower. Derek took his clothes and laptop with him and that looks like it.

Scott told Stiles what Derek had said about owning the building. He's standing in this loft, looking at the same couch that had been there during the Halloween rave last year. Clearly, Derek hasn't sold it in all these months. The power still works, and when Stiles tests the faucet he finds the water hasn't been shut off yet. It's been over a month since they left Mexico. Maybe Derek is planning to come back, after all. Maybe he is waiting to sell it until he has found somewhere new to put down roots. Maybe Derek hadn't bothered to shut off the utilities, and in a few days everything will be cut off because no one paid the bills. Derek hadn't changed the security code though, and Stiles can't help but wonder what that could mean.

He doesn't even really know why he's here anyway. Derek left after Mexico. He doesn't know if Derek knows Peter is in Eichen House. There's probably nothing Derek could tell Stiles about Peter that would help. From the scant bit of information Stiles has concerning Derek's life before he came back from New York, he and Laura hadn't visited Peter much, if any, while the man had been hospitalized. Nothing in this loft to explain the inner workings of an undead, manipulative, crazy man. Nothing here but memories of death and loss.

A key tossed in the corner of the kitchen counter catches Stiles’ attention. It's a simple pin tumbler lock key, relatively new going by the shine on its surface. There's no indication as to what the key unlocks.

Derek's loft is secured with a code system. The Hale vault needs a blood relative werewolf to use its claws to open it. Stiles runs his thumb over the teeth a few times as he tries to think of any locked doors Derek might need a key for.

Stiles pockets the key and decides it's time to leave.

 

* * *

  
“Hey, look who has most of their lights on today” Stiles gives Anderson a sardonic smile when Peter tracks his movement inside the room.

He sits down in the wooden chair across from Peter. It's the same cell as last time, but the bed is unmade and there is a notepad on the little table beside it this time. Stiles feels like his suspicion was correct when he'd wondered if Peter hadn't been locked somewhere different before Stiles visited him, somewhere the staff felt unsure of showing him. A grim satisfaction passes through him at the notion. Anderson ignores him.

Peter’s white shirt is damp along the pits and collar with sweat, but his skin is dry like whatever had him worked up happened a while ago. His blue eyes are bloodshot but they have awareness in them this time and shine bright with guarded curiosity. “Hello, Stiles. Come back to gloat some more?”

Even with shaggy hair and a curling beard, he's regal looking in that annoying way he's always had. Stiles sits across from him, and tries to hide the shock from knowing Peter had been at least a little coherent last time. He wonders if his words from before had sunk into Peter's subconscious or if he's taking a stab in the dark after picking up cues from Stiles’ scent the last time.

“Not in the mood right now.” Stiles slouches in his seat and stares at Peter.

His face is a little grey and the fine lines beside his eyes are more noticeable than ever. He looks like he hasn't been sleeping. Stiles knows his own eyes have a sunken in quality about them too. Looks like no one is getting enough sleep.

After several long moments, Peter leans forward and puts his hands on the table. They're bound together with damp rope, just like last time, and the skin around it is angry red, burned from wolfsbane. He laces his fingers together. There's dried blood around the nail beds. His nails are bitten down to the quick, uneven. Stiles stares at them, imagining how Peter must had tried unsheathing his claws time after time only for the poison in his body to fuck it up, cause him pain in exerting his natural power.

“You must be here for something.” Peter's voice is still rough. Stiles watches as he closes his eyes for a moment like he's fighting through pain or to stay lucid. “What is it?”

“As if you'd be so willing to give me what I came for.”

Stiles wets his lips, pushing away memories of being caught in his own body, of being stuck in this same place at the mercy of the doctors and staff. He is here to distract Peter, give him something to mull over, even if it isn't anything difficult. Keeping Peter occupied is the only plan Stiles has right now. He needs to make sure Peter isn't going to escape and go after Scott again. If Peter thinks he has something Stiles wants, then Stiles can lead him on.

“Maybe I just came here for some community service. Gotta beef up my college applications. It's not like I can put down ‘defeated an alpha pack, saved a bunch of lives’ or 'was possessed by a nogitsune, killed a bunch of people,’ right?” Stiles grimaces and has to look away from Peter's bright stare.

“You think you're going to make it to graduation?” Peter's question is simple curiosity, light, and it itches at Stiles. Hits him right where he's vulnerable. Stiles knows it was deliberate.

“With you locked up, doped up to your eyeballs in wolfsbane, we have a better chance.” Stiles grits the words out, straightening up in his seat and glancing down at the only visible sign of restraint. “How's that feel? Sting a little? A lot?” He sneers.

Peter simply lifts a corner of his mouth in a semblance of a smirk. “How mean you are when Scott isn't around to reign you in.” He sounds amused, purring the words. Curling his fingers into fists, Peter pulls his wrists apart gradually. His skin smokes and blood starts to seep from where the rope bites into it. “This? This is just an inconvenience, sweetheart.”

Peter is staring at Stiles, gaze intense and slightly crazy. It makes the hair on the back of Stiles’ neck stand up.

Anderson startles when he realizes Peter is pulling at his restraints. Suddenly he has a taser in his hand and is moving forward to stop Peter. “Hey!” He shouts in warning.

Stiles hasn't moved, even though adrenaline is flooding his system and his heartbeat is galloping. He feels vaguely nauseated from looking at the blood, and it pisses him off that he still gets grossed out from it after all the blood that has been spilled in the last year or more. He watches Peter relax his hands until his palms are flat on the table, never looking away from Stiles, as if Anderson is no more than an annoying fly. He's made his point, and his eyes move down to Stiles’ neck where his pulse is no doubt illustrating the slamming of his heart.

Anderson jerks Stiles up, still holding out the taser threateningly towards Peter. “Visitation over. Say 'goodbye.’” His fingers bite into Stiles’ bicep.

Wrenching from the guard's grip, Stiles straightens his shirt and jacket. “I have thirty minutes. It's been less than ten.” He looks back at Peter who looks calm, if intrigued by Stiles’ insistence on staying.

Anderson shakes his head. “Not if the patient gets agitated or violent. Time's up.”

“Fine.” Stiles turns back to Peter, annoyed and a little unnerved. “You should be thanking me you aren't drooling somewhere in the bowels of this place.”

Peter's lips thin and his eyes narrow, flickering for the briefest of moments electric blue.

 

* * *

  
After that, Stiles decides he isn't going to give up. He's been flipping back and forth between the merits of letting the staff keep Peter doped up. On the one hand, he's less likely to find a way to escape, but on the other who knows how much crazier he's likely to become if he's trapped in his own mind again? Stiles is like seventy-five percent sure they could defeat Peter if he tried, yet again, to kill Scott. And if they can keep Peter locked up for just like another year, then it might not even be a problem because they'll be graduating and going to college. After seeing Peter back to being almost his usual self, Stiles thinks that, yes, manning up and going to see the asshole every once in awhile will probably be a good thing for the pack in the long run.

“Stop thinking,” Malia complains muzzily. She’s curled up behind Stiles, and they're supposed to be sleeping. It's almost one in the morning.

Stiles shifts to his back, kicking the covers off his legs, and letting out a sigh. “Sorry.”

“'S fine. Go to sleep.” She pats his chest before tucking her hand under her chin again.

He doesn't really know why she's here. Ever since Malia found the part of the deadpool with her real last name, she's been distant with Stiles. Obviously, she's angry with him, and he should probably try talking to her about it, try explaining again why they'd agreed not to tell her about Peter being her dad yet. During the day, she's only around fleetingly, but at night she ends up coming over and crawling into bed with him.

He turns around so they're facing each other Malia’s eyes are closed and she's breathing rhythmically, like she's falling asleep. She's beautiful and fierce; Stiles still finds it difficult to believe she likes him. He runs his hand along her side, down to her hip until his fingers find the hem of the tank top she's wearing. Her skin is warm and soft. Malia hums, pushes forward. Stiles brushes his thumb along the pace where her chest turns to breast, then trails his hand back down her ribcage, out from under her shirt. He's thankful she's here. Malia blinks open her eyes and gives him a curious sound. When she reaches for him, he intercepts before she gets to his boxers.

“Good night,” Stiles threads their fingers together, feeling guilty. He likes having someone, her, in bed with him most of the time. The weight and warmth of her body is reassuring when he wakes up from nightmares. The sex they have is always rushed and harsh, nails dragging down his back and teeth digging into his shoulder, it grounds him in the moment but his release is short-lived somehow. Tension unravels, but it starts building back up before he's even caught his breath. Tonight, he doesn't want to bother.

Malia sighs, squeezes her hand around Stiles’.

 

* * *

  
Somehow, finals wrap up, and everyone passes. It's mostly thanks to Lydia's notes and the study groups she leads in Scott's living room. They've got to submit their requests for fall classes, so Stiles spends an entire afternoon going over what everyone has to have and what they want to take, so he can try to schedule them with as many classes together as possible. Lydia will be in mostly AP classes, and Scott wants to take AP Biology because it'll be good for when he applies to veterinary school. Stiles forces himself not to think about college, because, otherwise, he'd start mapping out ways to keep them as close as possible. Scheduling their classes for next semester is enough of a headache right now.


	2. Chapter 2

 

Stiles and his dad are spending the afternoon together. They need to do some grocery shopping, but for now, they're at a used bookstore two towns over because his dad likes reading old westerns and war fiction. Stiles likes the shop because it's got a weird mix of books bought in lots from flea markets, estate sales, and people who trade in books for store credit. Two large, lazy cats roam the stacks when they aren't napping.

The shop is in a mostly abandoned strip mall and every time they make it up here, Stiles is mildly surprised it’s still open. People generally buy books online these days and have them shipped directly to their house, or they just buy the ebook versions to save space. His dad talks about the way old books smell though, and Stiles remembers the way his mom used to take him to library book sales. He was allowed to pick out four books, and his mom would read to him from one of them before bed every night. There must still be enough people around who enjoy rifling through physical copies to keep the store in business. Stiles likes that, likes coming here with his dad.

One of the store cats, the orange and white one named Butterball, catches Stiles’ attention with the light tinkle of the bell on her collar. She has jumped down from the top of a sagging arm chair tucked between two overstuffed bookshelves when Stiles spots her. He approaches slowly because he doesn't want to scare her off. Butterball stares and allows him to lean down and rub a hand over the arch of her spine. Her fur is long, soft. Stiles pets her until she starts purring and circling around his ankles.

“Good girl,” he coos to her with a smile.

Something must catch her attention, because she darts off towards the back of the store. Stiles meanders, scanning the titles of the books at eye level. He's not looking for anything in particular, which is good because the inventory is categorized in the loosest of terms. His dad is still in the front of the store rummaging through peeling cardboard boxes of a purchase the owner made a few days ago but hadn't unpacked yet. Butterball chirrups where she's pacing along the top of a short metal bookcase and Stiles goes over to her. He carefully runs the back of his fingers over her chest when she lies down, tail flicking slowly and eyes half shut. The vibration of her purring feels strong against his fingers.

The shelves are stacked with occult books. Stiles has been here several times, though he usually only finds books on astrology and dream divination. Not much here that he can use to research for the supernatural shit that's been happening in Beacon Hills. He reads over the titles anyway. There's a plastic tote on the floor and he opens it because it hadn't been here last time he came.

Sitting on the floor, Stiles pulls the lid off and starts going through the books. Butterball keeps purring, soothing in the otherwise silent store. Books on the zodiac, parapsychology, palm reading. There's a rubber banded deck of tarot cards towards the bottom. The corners are all bent and worn as Stiles flips through them to look at the art. Nothing too intricate, so he tosses the bundle back into the box. Heavy hardback books are on the bottom. These are older and most have lost their dust jackets, if they ever had them.

_Basic Spellcasting_ makes Stiles pause. He's come across books about magic before, books that claim to teach spells for prosperity and revenge. Stiles passes over them because they always seem silly. This one though, something about it feels different. It's thin and large with a hard cover covered in discolored burgundy fabric. The writing on the spine is almost worn away completely. There's no Library of Congress information or ISBN inside. The author is W. G. Tillman. Stiles looks through the pages slowly, each one thin and delicate with a dark brown ink. Butterball is asleep when Stiles gets up and tucks the spellcasting book under his arm. He feels like he has too much energy now, suppressing the urge to immediately find his dad so they can go back home and he can study over the book in earnest.

He thinks about showing it to Deaton and asking if he knows anything about the author. Remembers all that time ago when Deaton had told Stiles he had a spark in him, thinks back to imagining mountain ash into existence, enough to try and save Scott. It would be cool to be able to contribute to the pack if and when something else happens. Stiles imagines all the ways he could have prevented death and destruction if he'd been able to use magic. Jennifer Blake though, there's a cautionary tale. Well, one thing at a time.

While he's here, Stiles collects some cheap paperbacks, thinking back to Kira's suggestion for Peter. He thinks about adding some Nicholas Sparks to the pile, just to imagine how painful Peter would find it. He does pick up two supernatural romance books as a laugh. Stiles grabs three different novels lauding their status as _New York Times_ best sellers; he doesn't know what Peter would actually enjoy reading. All that time alone though, Stiles is sure Peter should be thankful for any distraction. He doubts Peter is allowed to go to the tiny library at Eichen House that Stiles remembers. Not as if there was anything on those shelves published after nineteen seventy-eight or anything that wasn't missing at least a few pages.

“You ready, kiddo?” His dad has a tote bag full of books. He smiles when he sees Stiles’ haul. “Found some stuff, huh?”

“Yeah, got my beach reading all right here.” He still hasn't told his dad about visiting Peter.

As they head towards the cash register, his dad suggests, “why don't you see if Malia wants to join us for dinner? I'm thinking about grilling out tonight. And don't worry, it'll be fish, not steak.” His dad shakes his head with a rueful smile when Stiles opens his mouth to argue.

“Okay.”

Malia doesn't text him back, but that isn't unusual. Stiles invites Scott over instead and he asks if Kira can come too. Stiles takes a photo of the spell book and texts it to Lydia who is in Tahoe with her mom for the week.

_Couldn't hurt_ is her reply.

 

* * *

 

The room smells stale with blood and vomit when Stiles enters Peter's cell. He has to cover his mouth and nose to keep from gagging.

“What the fuck!” He looks from Peter who is slumped in his chair, hands bound, to Anderson who is standing by the door with an uncomfortable look on his face.

At least the bed looks clean and Peter's clothes are fresh. His hair is tangled but doesn't look greasy, just like he hadn't been able to comb it after showering. Someone cleaned up after themselves. It's reassuring and suspicious at the same time.

Anderson grimaces. “He had an outburst last night.”

A full moon. Peter must have been reacting to the pull. Probably got violent or started shifting or both. Whatever they did to him, with the smells in this place as evidence, couldn't have done anything but made it worse before Peter most likely passed out, sedated or otherwise.

“Can you give us some fucking space?” Stiles drops the stack of books he'd brought with him onto the table and throws his arms out in a _can you believe this_ gesture. “Not like he's going to be able to do anything to me in this state.”

“I'm not—” Anderson starts but Stiles cuts him off, stalking over to the guard.

“Stand outside the fucking door. You can see inside. This is bullshit. Did you guys electrocute him?” Stiles bites the words out, louder than he means to, as he moves back towards Peter.

A thread of protectiveness weaves through him as he thinks about the shit he saw happen to other patients here when he'd been among the number. He's irritated that it's coming out now, for Peter of all people, but it's there nonetheless and Stiles reacts before he can decide not to.

Anderson hesitates but he does as Stiles demanded. The clang of the door and slide of the locks echo around the room. Stiles wishes there were a window he could open to air out the smell. It reminds him too much of Boyd and Erica, when he'd been locked in the Argent’s basement.

Peter doesn't move when Stiles circles over to him. His pupils don't dilate even when Stiles tilts his head up towards the light. His skin is clammy but warm.

“First thing I learned was faking complacency.” Stiles mumbles as he fingers the shaggy tangle of Peter's hair. He's been here for almost two months and his hair has grown out enough to look terrible no matter how it's styled; not as if Peter has anyone to impress or any way to do anything about it. “I would have thought you'd know enough to figure that out.”

The first month of Peter's imprisonment, Stiles hadn't visited; it wasn't until the week after that Stiles came by. Had Peter been able to control himself then? Stiles sits down in the other chair, putting distance between the two of them. He wonders how many bruises and abrasions would be on Peter's skin right now if he weren't a werewolf. The drugs they use to sedate him apparently don't slow his healing factor.

“These,” Stiles taps the stack of books on the table, “are for you. Kira suggested it, so you can thank her never. I don't know what you like to read, so it's just some random stuff. That's got to be better than just staring at the walls and waiting around for your next meal though. Maybe if you stop acting up, they'll leave you alone long enough that you can wake up and pick one of the books up.”

Talking feels useless, even if Peter's eyes are open. He isn't focused on anything and doesn't seem to hear what Stiles is saying. Again, Stiles feels anger rise up inside him. He knows why he's here, but he still doesn't feel like he's accomplishing anything. Either Peter is doped up or he's irritable. Even if being here registers to Peter, Stiles doesn't know if it's enough to keep Peter from spiraling into a murder frenzy or something worse.

“I went to Derek's awhile back. He's gone. I don't know if anyone told you. But he packed his shit and skipped town. Scott doesn't know where he is or if he's coming back. I assume he's gone to find Cora, or maybe he's set up some little homestead and is selling vegetables at a farmer's market. I really don't know.” Stiles sighs. “Good for him, I guess. He's out of here; he survived and found a way out.”

Stiles looks at Peter who seems so much smaller than when he was before. “I guess that is still pretty shitty for you though. You're stuck here, stuck in a room again, all by yourself. But, this time I'm here.”

He sounds dark even to his own ears. “I'm not who you probably want. I don't want to be here either. But you can't be left to your own devices. And obviously no one else can come down here because of the mountain ash. So even if Derek was still hanging around, he couldn't do you much good. Jesus, what a sad fucking life you have.”

Stiles rubs a hand over his face, feeling too open and like his words are double-edged. He falls silent and just stares at Peter. The man is in a crew cut white undershirt and blue scrub pants. He's got slide on shoes. Stiles remembers how no one was allowed to wear lace-ups because someone might try to use them to commit suicide or strangle another person. Stiles idly wonders if Peter's ever considered suicide. If he'd rather die than be kept here for the rest of his life.

Stiles forces himself to stop thinking about it, about how he had planned his own scenario when he was at his lowest and still in charge of his body. He carefully maneuvers his thoughts around the times after he was no longer possessed.

“Derek could come back, might even. The power and water are still turned on at the loft.” Stiles says this because dwelling on negatives isn't going to help anyone. “He hasn't made a move to sell the place. He must have some reason for that.”

Stiles thinks about the building Derek owns in the industrial part of town that is half full of abandoned buildings. Derek had done just enough work to the loft to make it livable, several steps above the train he moved into after leaving the shell of the burnt out Hale house to be sure. The rest of the building was mostly open, though Stiles never had reason to explore it when he'd been there in the past, had assumed in passing that it was open spaces and machinery. Stiles bites his thumb nail while he pictures the building. Derek's loft only had one bedroom, separated from the living space with a hastily built wall. The spiral steps that Peter was so fond of perching on lead to the roof.

The key Stiles had found—he thinks he might now have an idea of where its mate is.

 

* * *

 

 

The code unlocks the building entrance and Stiles forgoes the elevator in favor of the stairwell. He checks each floor, almost positive he won't find anything until he is on the floor just below Derek's. And he's right.

Stiles smiles, wondering how much it irritated Peter that Derek got the penthouse.

Peter's apartment has more personality than Derek's. It's all clean lines, dark colors, masculine, like Derek's, but there's a luxury Peter seems to have embraced that Derek never wanted to. The couch is leather with fluffy, fur accent pillows. A thick Oriental rug is on the polished cement floor of the living room and large abstract painting hangs on the wall opposite the flat screen TV which is mounted above a gas fireplace. Stiles assumes the place has a real ambiance when the fire is lit and the sun sets. Now, though, it's three in the afternoon and it's too hot, even with the air conditioning running to turn on the fireplace.

Stiles walks through the kitchen. The materials are the same that were used in Derek's loft, but there are many more gadgets and cooking utensils. Apples and oranges sit in a fruit basket, rotten. When Stiles opens the refrigerator, there's a faint stench of old food, though it's mild thanks to the cool temperature. There are several glass bowls with lids on them, leftovers. The dirty dishes in the sink make Stiles feel uneasy; Peter had been expecting to come back home, and Derek had obviously not considered cleaning out the place before he left.

There’s a single bedroom here too, like Derek's. It's bed is large, a California king, and unmade. A hamper in the corner of the room is half full of dirty clothes. Stiles stares at the frame by the bed, sitting next to a charging tablet and a bottle of water. Peter's family stares back at him. They're all standing on the porch of the Hale house and the railings have garland and fairy lights wrapped around them like it's Christmas time. The top of the photo is charred and jagged with fire damage.

Swallowing around the dryness of his mouth, Stiles turns back to the living room. The bookshelves are a mishmash of DVDs, books, and knicknacks. On the top shelf are discolored photo albums that must have been rescued from the fire. The books beside it only stand out to him because he doesn't want to let his curiosity pull him towards those pages full of dead memories and unknown faces. He pulls down a black, leather bound book and flips through it.

It's a journal, written in scrawling cursive. Stiles has a hard time reading the slanted writing, but when he's able to, he realizes the author is talking about magic and runes. The book looks old, but it doesn't have any damage that could be attributed to fire. He wonders if Peter got it from the Hale vault or if he bought it somewhere. Stiles takes it and the others with him. Before he leaves, he hesitates on grabbing the photo by Peter's bed, and eventually decides to take it with him.

 

* * *

 

 

Malia swings in through Stiles’ window later that night while he's sitting at his desk, reading through one of Peter's books. When he hears her, he reflexively shuts the book and pulls some papers over it.

“Where have you been?” He swivels around in the chair and watches as Malia starts unbuttoning her shorts.

Malia shimmies out of them with a shrug. “Around. What are you doing?” She flops onto Stiles’ bed but rolls over to dig through the pockets of her shorts until she finds her phone. Her underwear is striped black and purple.

When he looks at the time on his alarm clock, he realizes it's close to two in the morning. Malia must be here to sleep. Stiles is already stripped down to his boxers and the t-shirt he wore today.

He answers Malia in the same vague tone she gave him. “Research.” She won't ask him to elaborate, not when things have been quiet. He would tell her if he found something new on the Desert Wolf.

Malia plugs in her phone to charge while Stiles shuts his laptop down and switches off the lamp before crawling into bed beside her. They settle in the darkness. Malia smells like fresh air and clean sweat, and Stiles assumes she must have been running in the preserve in her coyote form.

“Hey,” Malia braces her weight on an elbow and leans towards Stiles so she can kiss him warm and dry. “You smell weird.” She kisses him again, chaste, and wrinkles her nose. “You smell like Peter.”

He'd been avoiding telling her, but it's honestly surprising she hadn't figured it out before now. She probably would have if she wasn't disappearing all the time.

“Uh, yeah. About that.” Stiles sits up. “I visited him today. I've been there a couple other times too.”

She's silent for a moment, but then she makes a frustrated sound. “ _Why_.”

Stiles hasn't been able to get a good read on Malia's real feelings about Peter. Like so many other things, they haven't talked about it. Peter is homicidal. Peter is her father. Peter is not to be trusted. Outside of voicing her worry on whether or not she takes after him too much, Malia hasn't discussed how it feels to know her biological father.

“I want to make sure he knows he's under watch, and that he isn't going to be able to go on anymore killing sprees. Peter always seems to have something up his sleeve. This is as close to unarmed as when he was stuck in that coma, and I want to make sure he stays that way.”

“Scott should have killed him.” Malia sounds firm. “He challenged Scott, even if it was sneaky. He wanted to kill Scott to take his alpha power.”

Stiles snorts. “That's pretty much what I said.” He looks at Malia from the corner of his eye. “You'd, uh, you'd really be okay with that though? He's your dad.”

Looking down at the bedspread, Malia shrugs. “I don't know him, you know? I don't care about him like that, even if I'm curious about him.” She gets quiet again before saying, “my mother wants me dead, and my father is a murderer. As far as I'm concerned, my family died in that car and I'm just a regular orphan.”

Stiles closes his fingers around Malia's. “You're not like Peter or your mom. You're your own person, Malia.”

“Yeah.” Malia sighs and scoots back down until she's lying on the bed, tugging Stiles down with her. “If he can't be killed, I guess Eichen House is the second best thing for him.”

 

* * *

 

Music plays quietly and it’s helped him a little, listening to the lyrics, the rise and fall of the rhythm, when he finds himself getting frustrated or when his mind started spiderwebbing away from the task at hand. His dad is working the night shift so he doesn't need to be quiet or worry about being interrupted. Malia would be the most likely person that could find him out, but she left yesterday. He's taking her absence and  using the opportunity to practice; it keeps his mind busy. He doesn't want an audience yet.

_Belief_ , Stiles concentrates now on believing. He closes his eyes, inhales and exhales slowly. Ice is made up of water. Water can turn into ice. Stiles mouths _water to ice_ over and over, picturing a cube forming out of the water in the bowl sitting in front of him. A static energy wavers through Stiles, the same as when he'd drawn more mountain ash than existed all those months ago. When he opens his eyes, the water is chunky with slush. It isn't solid through, but it isn't liquid either.

He's getting a headache from working on the spell and focusing so hard on cultivating his spark. _Basic Spellcasting_ lies open next to him, but it hasn't been as helpful as he'd hoped. The instructions on actually doing a spell are about as vague as Deaton is. Stiles is starting to think that magic is much more nebulous than he'd assumed because he'd always thought it would be like science or math. It's looking more like faith than anything else though.

_“I'm doing this alone.” Maia’s voice crackled over the spotty signal of her phone. “I will tell you when we are coming back, but I don't want you here.”_

_Stiles was pacing around his bedroom, as he listened. He tugged at his hair and tried reasoning. “I can help. Scott and Kira and I can help you with this. Lydia could come in really fucking helpful here. Malia, you shouldn't be doing this by yourself.”_

_“Deaton is here too. I...Stiles I can't let her hurt you. Deaton knows what he's doing, and he told me he's willing to go up against the odds. I'm not willing to gamble with your life though.”_

_The words were heavy around Stiles’ heart, and warm him from within even if it's not the way he had always assume that sort of confession should feel. He loves her, and she him, but with every kiss, with every interaction, it becomes more and more obvious that they're both playing at the part of lovers. They're comfortable with each other and find comfort in one another._

_“I want to help,” was what it boiled down to. Stiles looked at the posters on his bedroom walls. “I can't help you from here.”_

_“You can help by staying out of my way and trusting me.”_

Scrubbing his face, Stiles groans. This is going to take so much more time than he wanted. He's only been able to freeze this half cup of water twice since he started three hours ago. Pushing himself like this wasn't good for him, for his head, but he was impatient with the need to already have mastered something, anything useful.

He's done his own searching for the Desert Wolf, looking on the internet to comb through news articles and message boards for any clue to the woman. When he'd found her last confirmed hit three weeks ago, he'd told Malia. Now Deaton is involved, apparently helping her track her mother. Anxiety spools in his gut when he thinks about Malia going after the woman who wants her dead.

“Water to ice,” Stiles digs the palm of his hands into his eye sockets as he grits the words out through clenched jaws.  
Nothing happens.


	3. Chapter 3

 

Thunder crashes and a streak of lightning stabs across the grey sky like knobby fingers of death. Flipping his hood over the crown of his head, Stiles makes a break from his Jeep to the entrance of Eichen House. The waiting room is empty and it looks especially gloomy with the dim morning light pressing in through the windows. His sneakers squeak along the linoleum as he moves towards the receptionist behind the chain link partition.

“I'm here to see Peter Hale.” He wishes he would have remembered to bring an umbrella, but at least he'd had this hoodie in the backseat of the Jeep. Just from the short sprint here, the fabric is soaked and the front of Stiles t-shirt is damp where he didn't bother to zip it up all the way.

The receptionist pointedly taps the clipboard on the counter. “Sign in.”

With an annoyed sigh as he glares at the man, Stiles fills out his name, the time and date, and his request to visit Peter Hale. “How many visitors do you get, honestly.” It's the same page he signed on last week, and there are only two names between then and now. He tosses the pen down.

“Hand over whatever you want to take with you. I have to check that none of it is contraband.” The receptionist sounds bored as he buzzes the door unlocked so Stiles can pass through.

When he sets the backpack on the desk, Stiles says, “oh ya know. Just a metal file, some C4, and a revolver.” He smiles when all he gets in return is an unamused look.

The hair clippers causes a pause though. Stiles can feel the embarrassed flush trying to crawl up his neck because he really doesn't want to have to explain this to anyone.

“Yeah, I don't know if it's general practice or not, but Peter is starting to look like an actual wolf these days. And since no one here seems to be leaping to take care of it, I thought I'd fix it.” He points to the clippers. “Not gonna be able to cut anything but hair with those.”

The receptionist gives him a long look but ultimately packs the kit back up. There's another small stack of books that gets flipped through, and then Stiles is escorted into the maze of Eichen House after surrendering his cell phone and being patted down for any weapons.

“Hello, Stiles.” Peter isn't sitting this time, when Anderson opens the door. He's standing by the far wall, back straight but voice rough.

Trepidation curls through Stiles at the sight of Peter clear-eyed and lucid. Bringing the clippers with him had been a last minute impulse when he spotted them in the bathroom at home as he brushed his teeth this morning. Now, the thought of actually going through with grooming Peter seems weird, especially knowing Peter would be sure to make it just as awkward as it could possibly be. Of course, there's no reason Stiles has to go through with it; no one but the receptionist even knows he brought them with him.

Anderson locks Stiles in and turns his back on the door like he did during Stiles’ last visit. Stiles isn't sure what convinced the guard to relax a little, but Stiles is glad to have a little more privacy. He imagines Peter must agree.

Peter gestures towards the chairs, wrists bound once again in wolfsbane soaked rope. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

Dropping his bag by the chair, Stiles sits and crosses his arms as he watches Peter carefully pull out the other seat. “You are almost back to normal.”

“Yes, seems someone kicked up a fuss about the rough treatment I have been given.” Peter eyes Stiles warily, clearly wondering why Stiles is still visiting and why he would care if Peter is being hurt without due warrant.

Digging his fingers into his palms where they're folded against his chest, Stiles scoffs, “Too bad. You're better company when you can't talk.”

Peter smirks and draws out the silence long enough to make Stiles’ cheeks heat at the inadvertent double entendre. Once he's gotten the reaction from Stiles that he wanted, Peter asks, “and why am I being graced with your presence? You'll have to excuse me for my memory is a little clouded, but I don't recall you explaining beyond a wish to brag. Am I your summer project, Stiles?” He doesn't look particularly thrilled with that notion.

“Something like that, I guess.”

“An odd hobby to take up.” Peter hums contemplatively. “Those books, I assume you brought them?”

The question spurs Stiles to unzip his bag and pull out the books he brought this time. The ones Stiles brought last time are lined up on the bedside table. One of the supernatural romances is lying on its side and a scrap of paper sticks from the top like a bookmark.

“Yeah. I figured you might need something to help pass the time.” He slides the small stack across the table. “It's a mix.”

Peter eyes the books. “Bringing me trashy books and complaining to the administration about my treatment,” he looks back at Stiles, blue eyes sharp, “are you trying to be my friend, Stiles? After Scott and your father had me locked in here?” He arches a skeptical eyebrow.  
“I'm keeping lines of communication open. You know or you at least act like you know a lot more than you're willing to tell us. You're like Deaton with a penchant for psychotic murder.”

“Trying to placate me so I can be another research access point.” Peter tilts his head in consideration. “Not a bad plan, I suppose. And I assume it's one you've enacted without Scott's blessing. After all, he can't come down here to rescue you when I inevitably bite the hand that feeds.” Peter's voice is light but Stiles can't help but notice the way the light glints on his teeth when he stretches his lips in the shape of a smile.

As usual, Stiles feels unsteady here. It's exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. Stiles relaxes his arms, fingers tapping lightly against the tabletop as he quickly weighs his next step. “There's not a whole lot you can do while we're in here. Scott might not be able to come down this wing, but my dad can and so can Chris Argent.” The brief narrowing of Peter's eyes thrills him.

“What is it you want to know, then?” Peter seems open to bargaining, and that tells Stiles more than it should. Peter is scared of Argent and at least has a healthy respect for Stiles’ dad.

The problem is that Stiles still hasn't been able to decide on a course of action. He knows what his main reason for keeping up with Peter is, but Stiles has a feeling if he outright admitted it, Peter would be pissed off and shut him out entirely. Peter has a lot of pride, is egotistical, and Stiles does not see a happy ending happening if Peter finds out he's basically just been babysitting him. He's tempted to ask Peter about the books on magic he'd found in Peter's apartment, but looking for help from the devil doesn't seem like the best idea either. Besides, Stiles likes how it feels to withhold information from Peter, even if the information isn't particularly powerful at the moment; it could be much more pertinent later on.

“I'd like to be able to go back in time and keep you from ever biting Scott. I don't think that is possible though, so I guess I'll have to be satisfied with you agreeing to answer my questions from now on truthfully, and to agree to tell me whatever you know if i have a question about the supernatural.” Stiles thinks that should cover things pretty well, even if he sincerely doubts Peter will acquiesce to his demands or stay true to them if he does agree.

Peter smirks. “It's a little interesting that you'd only care to go back in time to prevent that one thing. Wouldn't it be nicer if you could go back and stop Kate from setting my family on fire? Or stop Derek from following his dick around when he met that bitch? Nothing would be as it is now.”

“My messing with the timeline influenced by other people would fuck shit up. The only reason you happened to bite Scott that night was because I talked him into going into the woods to look for Laura's body. If I hadn't done that, Scott and I wouldn't have been dragged into this world.” It's a thought he's had so many times before, and he isn't happy about admitting it to Peter. But then, Peter is smart enough to be able to have put it all together if he'd bothered to even think about it.

“This world, is still the world you were in before you knew about werewolves and the other monsters that go bump in the night, sweetheart. Knowing about us has given you power to defend yourself, even if that idiot of a friend of yours has made things more difficult than they need to be. Just think, if I hadn't bit Scott or,” Peter flicks his gaze up and down Stiles, “someone in his stead, you or any of your other friends, maybe even your father, might already be dead.

“You do know about us, and you're tangled up with that knowledge for the rest of your life. Do you really think it's going to stop once you graduate, go off to college, find some little girl to settle down with? You, the boy who searches for dead bodies for the hell of it, and thrives in the midst of death? No, Stiles, there will be no end for you, not until your dying breath.”

A chill rolls over Stiles at Peter's foretelling but he refuses to acknowledge it. “I get it. The world moves on, with or without my knowledge of what is actually going on.”

“Really, I did you a favor, then.” Peter gives Stiles a little smile. “You're welcome.”

Scoffing, Stiles snarks, “could have done without all the murder, but I guess there's no accounting for taste.”

“Well, I was a touch insane back then.”

Stiles has the dumbest urge to smile at the Peter's flippant attitude. They have share a similar sense of humor and sometimes Stiles finds that disturbing, but probably not as often as he should. He rolls his eyes instead of smiling.

“I don't think there are many people who would say you're any less insane now.”

“Calculating, not insane,” Peter corrects even though he doesn't look particularly insulted at being called crazy. “And as for your request that I be forthcoming with information—”

“And truthful,” Stiles is sure to press that condition, and make sure Peter knows that he's paying attention.

“Yes, that,” Peter allows. “As for those, I will agree to the best of my knowledge. The wolfsbane they're injecting me with messes with my mind, so I can't be sure I'll always be able to remember things clearly.”

Stiles calls bullshit even though Peter looks perturbed at this admission.

“If it messes with anything, it's probably your short-term memory, not long-term. But fine, I guess that's more than I really expected you to agree with anyway.”

“Shall we shake on it?” Peter lifts his hands, clearly amused. His wrists are turning red under the rope like every other time he has to wear it for Stiles’ visit. “Hm, this would be easier if I didn't have to be bound like some common criminal. You said yourself, there's nothing much I can do to you in here. You wouldn't be willing to try getting them to stop, would you?”

Stiles eyes Peter's hands and wrists. He prefers some kind of restraint on the man for now. Stiles isn't stupid. Even if Peter can't shift into his beta form to rend Stiles into shreds if he wanted to, Peter could still break his neck if he got close enough.

“No, I think it's better this way. Besides, I might be pushing my luck with them anyway.” Stiles hesitates before pointing towards Peter. “How do you like your mountain man look?”

Peter's lip curls. It figures that he is prideful enough to detest looking unkempt. Not surprising considering how nice he'd dressed himself since he killed his nurse. Peter carried a fucking hanky in case his hands got dirty, for crying out loud. Stiles was positive having other people see him so rough bothered Peter.

“I used to cut my own hair for a while.” Stiles leans over to pull the kit out of his bag and sets it on the table where Peter can see.

“Yes, I remember the unfortunate buzzcut you sported last year.” Peter lifts a brow. “Are you offering me your barbering skills?” He sounds dubious.

Fiddling with the selection of guards, he picks the quarter inch one and attaches it to the clippers. The length isn't too short, though much shorter than Peter usually wears his hair. But if Stiles cuts it this short, they can hopefully avoid a repeat in the near future. “It's either that or look more and more like Charles Manson.” The best way to get through this is to just bulldoze through the awkwardness. Stiles shrugs, “your choice, man.”

Peter let's out a sigh, resigned. “Fine.”

Stiles ends up banging his head on the table when he goes to plug the cord into the outlet beneath it. This doesn't do anything to bolster Peter's confidence in him or to put Stiles at ease. He bears through it, making a face when he notices Peter smirked at his clumsy misfortune. When he stands up, there's enough slack in the cord for him to step behind Peter's chair.

“Okay, so…” Stiles hesitates, unsure where to start because he's never cut anyone else's hair before. He's also a little bit amazed that Peter is actually letting him this close with something that could vaguely hurt him. “Um, look down.”

Peter doesn't say anything and, instead, does as requested. The buzz of the clippers changes from a low hum to a kind of crunching sound when he presses the device against the base of Peter's head and pushes up, against the grain of the hair. Stiles gets lost in the rhythm for a few minutes as he keeps making passes over Peter's scalp. The hair falls to the ground in clumps; it's soft and clean. Peter moves whenever Stiles tilts his head this way or that to make sure he doesn't leave any too-long strands.

Stiles is facing Peter, standing next to his shoulder, when he cuts the power off. Peter looks different with short hair, younger maybe. Disguising his drive as brushing the cut hair off, Stiles gives into his urge to run his fingers over the freshly shorn style. It's thick, soft, and springy when his fingers card through it.

“Done.” Stiles looks at Peter's face and sees when he opens his eyes. A fresh wave of awkwardness washes over him, but he ignores it. “I can cut your…” Stiles waves to his own face, indicating the beard, “if you want?”

Peter holds his gaze for a moment, calm. This close, Stiles can see the different shades of blue in his eyes. “Okay.” The movement of Peter curling his fingers together in his lap catches Stiles' attention.

Pulling the guard off the clippers, Stiles turns at the waist to toss it into the open kit on the table. When he straightens back, he finds himself speaking softly. “I'll be careful.”

Peter juts his chin out when Stiles barely takes hold of it, eyes turning downcast. Stiles lets out a silent breath in relief. Again, Peter is easy to direct as Stiles first drags the clippers down his cheeks and then up his throat. It's when he has his fingers pressed below Peter's ear and thumb just below his chin that Stiles notice the jump of Peter's pulse. It's quick and obvious now that Stiles is looking. Stiles smooths the pad of his thumb around the curve of Peter's chin without realizing it.

He finishes trimming Peter's beard as short as the clippers will allow. Hair is all over the place; Stiles can feel the itch of some sticking to his forearms. Hopefully, Peter will be allowed to shower before bed tonight, otherwise, he'll be scratchy until he can wash off. Stiles steps away from Peter and the weird trance he'd let himself fall into before stooping down to free the cord so he can wrap the clippers up and pack back up.

“I can't deny I feel a little more human,” Peter mumbles, running a hand along his own jaw. Stiles watches him scratch his fingertips over his scalp. “Thank you.”

Stiles shrugs, turning his back so he has an excuse not to say much. He zips his backpack up. Anderson unlocks the door then and pushes it open. He has an eyebrow raised.

“Visitation time is over, if you're done playing beauty shop.” He crosses his arms and Stiles wonders how much time has actually passed.

The chair Peter is sitting in scrapes across the ground when he stands up. Stiles watches, slinging his bag over a shoulder, as Peter gives Anderson a derisive look. There's a tension in the set of his arms that makes Stiles briefly worried for Anderson, but then Peter takes a long breath and smiles. It's all teeth, but Stiles can tell Peter doesn't mean too much by it.

Anderson is smart enough to stay by the door instead of escorting Stiles out. Peter doesn't say anything, no goodbye or snarky comment to Stiles, as Stiles leaves. That silence sticks with him.

* * *

 

The rain doesn't let up throughout the day and lowers the temperature a good ten degrees below the average for the year. It's a light rain the area rarely gets and Stiles opens his bedroom window a few inches just so the sound of the rainfall amplifies enough to lull him to sleep.

Malia wakes him up at one forty-four with the thud of her wet shoes hitting the floor after pulling them off. Her hair is swept back off her face, pulled up in a half ponytail, but it's slicked down from the rain and she's soaked to the skin. It doesn't seem to phase her.

“Everything go okay?” Stiles wipes his eyes with one palm to chase away the groggy feeling he has from sleeping too hard for too short a time. He feels like some of the pressure on his chest leaves at the sight of her.

She pulls off her jean jacket and hooks it over the back of Stiles’ desk chair. “Yeah, I guess? We didn't find her, but we ran into some trouble with some hunters. Deaton talked us out of it.” However things went down, Malia doesn't sound like she agreed with it.

“Well I'm glad you're okay.” Stiles moves over so she can slide into the bed with him. Her skin is damp, cool when he pulls her into a hug.

Malia rubs her face in the crook of Stiles’ neck and her fingers push beneath his t-shirt against his lower back. When she's finished scenting him, she lays her head on his shoulder. She stays like that for a long moment, breathing slowly. They're measured breaths like when Lydia had tried teaching her about working through frustration in healthy ways.

“Did you visit Peter today?” She eventually asks. She sighs heavily and her body relaxes against Stiles. “You smell like wolfsbane.”

Stiles makes an affirmative noise but doesn't say anything. He isn't really sure how he feels about what he did today, and he definitely doesn't want to talk about it right now. He's satisfied knowing Malia is back and safe. Pulling them both down until they're lying face to face, Stiles closes his eyes and let's the tug of sleep take over.

The next time he wakes, the rain has stopped and it's just before sunrise. Malia isn't lying next to him any longer, all trace of her presence gone except for the cracked window she hadn't closed before she left. When Stiles reaches out to touch the pillow beside his, the fabric is cool to the touch. She left some time ago.

Stiles turns onto his back and folds his arms behind his head. From downstairs, he can make out the sound of his dad's coffee maker puttering along. He wonders if Malia left because his dad was getting up for an early shift or if she decided to leave anyway. Stiles is thankful she made it back, even if things are still totally unsolved as far as the Desert Wolf is concerned. He's also a little relieved to wake up alone, not having her there to smell the anxiety he feels from the dream he'd just had. It's a relief not to need to worry about her concern and to not be able to just push his anxiety into the action of escape through sex.

Sex isn't even something he's wanted for a while. Not the way he can remember wanting it before he slept with Malia that first time. He used to daydream about finally, finally losing his virginity. He used to imagine all the different scenarios he wanted to screw in, all the different half-pictured people he thought about fucking, what positions he wanted to try. Sex has been rushed and heated though. A straight shot of adrenaline and a euphoric climax that is pure biology. He sees Malia's body, feels how she wants him and might even need him, knows he has that same manic need for contact from someone he can trust, and they have sex. It's been a means to an end for him and for both of them, enjoyable enough and a good way to stop thinking for a half hour or so. That knowledge weighs on him, and picks at any remaining enjoyment he gets from having sex with her.

Sometimes he wonders if Derek has similar fucked up feelings associated with sex. He must, after all the times Derek has gotten fucked over by girlfriends. Stiles can say for himself, at least, he hasn't been betrayed or manipulated by sex. It's gotta suck for Derek, if Stiles’ own weird associations with sex are as sucky as they are.

Groaning, Stiles rolls onto his stomach to try and smother the melancholy thoughts running through his head. He hates when he wakes up like this, brain already running too fast for his groggy body to deal with. He can smell wet earth and the scent of Malia's shampoo when he breathes against the pillow. If they broke up, he wouldn't have this smell lingering around him like a ghost. If they broke up, Stiles frowns, he wouldn't know how to relate to her anymore.

 

* * *

 

Melissa is home when Stiles gives a courtesy knock on front door before unlocking it with the key he's had on his keyring since he was nine. She's in the kitchen heating up something in the microwave and for once isn't in a pair of scrubs. It must be a day off; Stiles doesn't think she gets enough of those.

“Hey, Stiles.” She gives him a warm smile. “Want some pizza?”

The microwave dings, and she pulls the plate out. Two slices of supreme pizza are lying limply on it. Even if he wanted to, Stiles couldn't pass judgement on her breakfast choice. All he's had today is some weak coffee and a cheese stick.

“Pass, but thanks.” Hitching a thumb towards the stairs, he asks, “Scott home?”

Melissa takes a bite of one of her slices, nodding. After she finishes chewing, he says, “Couldn't say if he's awake, but he was there when I checked in last night.”

Stiles takes the stairs two at a time, then tiptoes quietly down the hall. He's got pretty much no chance in hell of surprising Scott if he's awake, but he's going to try anyway. He opens the door just wide enough to peek at Scott's bed and see if he's still there. Scott’s on his back with one leg kicked out from his covers and his chest steadily rising and falling with slow, even breaths.

Stiles takes a running jump, and pounces into the bed, sure to land half on top of his best friend. “Rise and shine motherfucker!” He slaps lightly at Scott's cheeks for a second.

Scott spasms awake, eyes flashing alpha red and growling. He has Stiles’ wrists in his hands and flips them over in no time at all. The pissed off look quickly morphs into confusion which slides right into amused annoyance when he registers it's just Stiles being an asshole.

“Holy crap, Stiles!” Scott grabs him around the neck and hauls him up so he can give him a noogie. “Way to almost get your head ripped off.”

Scott lets Stiles push him off as they both chuckle.

“Your breath smells like ass. Gross. I can't believe Kira lets you kiss her.” Stiles waves a hand in front of his face and gives Scott a shit-eating grin.

“Like your morning breath smells like roses.” Scott rolls his eyes. The blanket is tangled up around his legs so he works at it until he can get free. “What time is it anyway?” He yawns.

Stiles flops down next to Scott, lifts his butt up so he can get his cell phone out of his pocket. “Eight fifty.” The scandalized look on Scott's face makes him snort. “Aw, did baby not get enough sleep?”

Scott flips him off and walks over to his bathroom. “I don't have to be at work until noon, man. It's summer. There's no reason for me to be up this early.” He pushes the door shut just enough for modesty, but Stiles can hear the splash of Scott's piss hitting the toilet. “Did you even sleep last night?”

“Yes, mom. I got six whole hours.”

Stiles sits up, crosses his legs, and fiddles with the key he has threaded on a string around his neck. He hadn't felt right putting it on his keyring because it doesn't belong to him. But leaving it in his room, even if no one would possibly be able to figure out what it goes to, hadn't felt right either. He pulls it out from the neck hole of his shirt so he can look down at it. He’d come over here thinking to ask Scott to come look at the place with him. Stiles runs his thumb over the teeth once, twice, then tucks it back under his shirt.

“Do you think Mom made pancakes?” Scott looks like he knows the answer to that question already, but is hopeful nonetheless when he comes back out of the bathroom.

“Sorry, Scotty. Looked like she was eating leftover pizza when I came in. You're on your own.”

“Sucks” Scott drags a pair of shorts on. “Hey, we could get breakfast. I'll buy” He grabs his phone and sits on the edge of the bed to check something.

“Yeah, if you're gonna twist my arm about it. How about Cheryl's Diner?” Stiles is on his own phone, looking at Instagram. Lydia posted a new selfie in a one piece bathing suit and a large floppy hat. He likes the photo and keeps scrolling through his feed.

Scott gets up to finish dressing. When they're stomping down the stairs, Melissa looks up from the couch where she's curled under a blanket watching some morning gossip show on TV.

“Where are you two off to, so early?” There's a slight tension between her eyebrows like she is prepared to hear something gruesome, but is trying to think positively.

Scott grabs his helmet from the table by the door; apparently they're riding separately. “Breakfast.” He smiles brightly and goes over so he can give her a hug from behind the couch.  
Melissa looks relieved. “Okay. Enjoy yourselves,and be careful.”

Outside, Scott pulls his helmet on but pauses before getting on his bike. “Hey, did you have something you, like, planned on doing?”

Stiles rubs his chest and presses his fingers against the key where it rests. “Nah, just wanted some quality bro time. Bros hanging out, being bros.” He does a little shimmy, letting himself forget about Peter, about Malia, and about all the shit weighing him down.

A guilty expression crosses Scott's face and Stiles knows exactly what he's going to say before Scott even opens his mouth. “I invited Kira to breakfast. I'm gonna go pick her up.” He gestures lamely to the bike he's sitting on now.

“Oh, yeah, sure, man. Kira's bros, I guess.” Stiles forces a smile on his face. If Scott listened carefully enough, he'd be able to hear the lie.

Scott gives Stiles a bright smile. “Yeah, hey, why don't you see if Malia wants to join us?”

Stiles is shrugging noncommittally as soon as the suggestion is out of Scott's mouth. “I don't know. She's been kind of busy lately.”

Forehead wrinkling, Scott asks, “she made it back, okay, though, right? She was supposed to be back yesterday. Deaton hasn't said anything went wrong.”

Stiles swings open his door, already over the conversation, irritated. “Yeah. She's back and she's okay. I'll see you guys at the diner.” He jumps up into his seat and ignores the pull of Scott staring after him for a moment before Scott rolls his bike back so he can head pull out onto the road. When Stiles hears the engine come to life and then fade, he turns on the Jeep and seriously considers driving back home instead of going to Cheryl's.


	4. Chapter 4

 

Lydia isn't much for making home visits, prefers going out to eat or window shopping if she can have her choice. The summer is still young, but she hasn't stuck around Beacon Hills. She's visited her dad and she's gone on vacation with her mom. The lake house was sold, surprisingly enough, at just below asking price and it was a relief to everyone, not just Mrs. Martin. They went to Hawaii to celebrate.

Now, Lydia stands in Stiles’ kitchen with the slightest of tans on her fair skin. Freckles have popped out along her cheeks and shoulders from too much sun, but she looks as if she escaped getting a burn. She watches Stiles whisk several eggs before pouring them into a casserole dish.

“I'm worried about Malia.” She has that clipped way of speaking that always draws Stiles’ attention. He used to get inappropriate boners at the thought of her cutting him with insults. Thankfully, that phase passed.

Lydia crosses her arms like she expects Stiles to do something to fix the situation or like it's his fault she is bothered at all, maybe both things. Stiles nods instead, tearing up a handful of rinsed spinach with more violence than strictly necessary. He drops them into the milk and eggs mixture, then picks up and onion to peel and dice.

Cutting off the ends, he agrees, “I know. I can't find anything new on the Desert Wolf. It's as if she's disappeared off the radar, which is somehow more frightening than the trail of dead bodies all over North America.” He slices the onion in half, breathing through his mouth to try avoiding the smell from making his eyes water. “She said they didn't find anything either.”

Lydia moves closer, so she can see Stiles’ face as he concentrates on his task. Her faint flowery perfume helps take the sting of the onion away.

“I’ve got this...feeling. It's like there's a sound building up in the back of my throat.” Lydia stares at the wall across from her, frown tilting her lips down. She notices when Stiles’ hand stills mid slice, and she looks at him again. “I think Malia is going to die, soon.”

Her eyes are clear but the delicate skin around them is tight with worry. Stiles watches her lift her arms up to hug herself like the cold chill of death is around her. He swallows, stomach in knots, and hurries to finish dicing the onion.

“Do you know when, or how? How do we stop it?” He sounds desperate, he knows. “Lydia, what's going to happen?”

Lydia shakes her head, making an annoyed sound. “I don't know, Stiles!” She flings out a hand to communicate more frustration. “I don't know how this works! I just know what I feel, and I feel like Malia is going to die. I think the Desert Wolf is going to come here and kill her. But I don't know where exactly, or how, or what day.” Lydia’s voice cracks with emotion. “What is the point of being a banshee, if it doesn't even help me save my friends?” Her question comes out in a whisper.

Stiles hastily dumps the onion into the casserole, then pulls Lydia into a half hug, avoiding getting juice on her clothes. “We are going to figure this out. Malia isn't going to die.”

They both know that Stiles’ promise is anything but insurable. He says it anyway, with as much conviction as possible. It’s the same way they've faced every other challenge so far, and while they haven't come out on the other side unscathed, they've survived more than a group of inexperienced teenagers should manage. Stiles is already thinking things through, looking for a way to protect Malia and the rest of them.

Lydia is the one to step away from Stiles’ hug. She seems to have collected herself, let the mask fall back into place. She surveys the counter, and asks, “what are you making?”

He'd forgotten about it for a moment. But the question spurs him back into motion. “Lunch for me and Dad. It's a breakfast casserole. If you want to stick around, you can come along with me.”

She smiles softly as she looks at the contents of the casserole dish. “Thank you for the invitation, but I'd rather not intrude.” Lydia squeezes Stiles’ wrist, and glances up at Stiles. “I haven't said anything to Malia yet. I didn't want to freak her out with mostly useless feelings.”

“Okay.” What Stiles doesn't need to say is, I won't say anything or thanks. He watches Lydia pick up her purse and leave him alone once more.

The casserole bakes in the oven while Stiles gets to work combing the internet for any new leads.

 

* * *

 

The problem with having a vague idea that the shit was going to hit the fan, but no definite information, is that it leaves one in a hurry to wait. Stiles had to go about everyday life, taking lunch to his Dad, picking up around the house, doing laundry, playing videogames in fits to try and distract himself for an hour or so. Through all of it, there's a newsreel running just beneath his every action, typeface in bold, all caps **_MALIA COULD DIE._**

He should be used to this, the hypervigilance, after how many months of one crisis after another. In comparison, it could be argued that this is a small issue. As far as anyone knows, the only loss might very well be Malia, a girl they've known for less than six months. The old, logical part of Stiles' brain tries to latch onto that to force compartmentalization of the emotional ties he has to her, to divorce himself from his need to keep the people he cares for safe. When that happens, Stiles finds himself scared of the darkness in him. How easy it could be to step off that ledge and let everyone go, if only so he wouldn't have to suffer their loss anymore.

All these things press on Stiles as he searches and searches. He remembers to make his dad's lunches, but he has no appetite more than to push his magic abilities further. In one night, he teaches himself to light fires with force of will and to launch mountain ash so it falls in a connected circle around an object. Stiles gets a nosebleed and a migraine for his effort, but he thinks it's worth it to have some kind of defensive and offensive skills besides running. Other times, he sorts piles of laundry while envisioning the different ways a seasoned manhunter might be brought down, the different ways they might all be callously taken out before the Desert Wolf is finished. Hacking the police database while his dad is at work, finds nothing useful, nothing current. And Stiles just doesn't know when it's going to happen, beyond soon.

Two days later, Stiles stumbles into Peter's cell to grasp at straws, disbelief at himself for taking so long to consider this very avenue.

He'd gripped the steering wheel tightly the whole drive over, worried that Peter would be doped up again for some slight indiscretion, and Stiles wouldn't be able to glean anything that might help. That it would be too late before Peter had a clear enough mind to tell him anything.

“You're looking a little peaky.” Peter’s eyebrows raise when he looks over Stiles. “Trouble sleeping?”

“What? No.” Stiles shakes his head, causing the dull headache behind his eyes to ratchet for a moment. “I haven't...I've been busy. Look, I need you to tell me everything you know about the Desert Wolf. Now.”

Peter brings his hands up to the table and leans forward. He passes his gaze over Stiles again, slowly, and it almost seems as if he's he's looking for something particular. “What has you so anxious?” The question is asked, though Peter sounds more contemplative than inquisitive.

Rubbing a hand over his face, Stiles grits out his words. “You told me you'd answer honestly.” He drops his hand, clenching it in his lap. “Tell me what the fuck you know about Malia's mother!” Stiles has to keep himself from getting in Peter's face. The anger and anxiety inside threaten to overwhelm him in his sleep deprived state, it only pisses him off more.

“Talia took my memories of her, if you'll recall.” Peter looks unaffected by Stiles emotional demand, unimpressed, even. “I take this line of interrogation to mean, you've got a werecoyote problem?” He tilts his head in consideration. “I could tell you what I know of werecoyotes in general.”

Of course, Peter doesn't know jackshit about the Desert Wolf. He hadn't remembered he even had a daughter. Stiles has a vague idea that Talia had taken Peter's memories about Malia's beginning and existence in some sense of compassion, but it's really come back to bite them all on the ass. Stiles grinds his teeth.

“Fine. Tell me what you know.”

“Tell me why, first.” Peter has a glint in his eye and Stiles really wishes he could read it.

“Because that bitch is coming here to hunt down Malia, that's why. You know, your daughter?” Stiles makes the jibe despite knowing it isn't likely to hit Peter anywhere particularly paternal. “I'm trying to find a way to save her.”

Peter hums. “Just you? Or the whole pack?”

Stiles comes up short. Scott knows what's going on, finally. Malia told him where she went with Deaton, and Lydia went to Scott after talking with Stiles first. Since then, Scott has been trading off with Liam and Kira on Malia watch. Stiles has been told repeatedly, he needs to stay behind the scenes, find out what he can, and let them know whatever he finds. It's frustrating, but they're all working together, like always. Peter is looking for another tally against Scott as alpha.

“The pack. We are going to find a way to save her. It would work a lot easier if you cooperated.” Stiles narrows his eyes.

“Get me out of here, and you can have one more werewolf to help.” Peter lifts his chin. The short beard accentuates the sharpness there.

Stiles scoffs. “You aren't going anywhere.” He ignores the shot of disquiet that goes through him.

“Okay, I guess I'll need to get used to not having visitors again. That's a shame. I've been looking forward to our little talks. Seems like you’ll be dead in less than three or four days, going by the panic I can smell rolling off you.” Peter’s lips thin.

Stiles closes his eyes. His head hurts and his skin feels too tight. Nothing feels quite real when he looks around, the walls seem to sway in his vision. He needs to sleep, but he needs to find a way to keep everyone safe more. The call of having another person, someone capable, on their side is strong. He doesn't have the energy to argue and try to outwit Peter. Even as he agrees, he can see the ways in which this will fuck them over later on.

One thing at a time though.

Stiles sits in silence for a few minutes as he wrestles with himself over saying yes. He doesn't want to give into Peter, and not too quickly. Stiles’ hesitation must give him away though, because Peter's mouth starts to quirk up in a smile the longer Stiles is quiet.

“I'll see what I can do. I'm going to have to get my dad to sign you out. Which means he'd be responsible for you.” That particular point is especially unsavory to Stiles. He desperately wishes he could stop bringing his dad into all this shit.

“I can behave.” Peter gives Stiles a smile that promises otherwise. Then his expression clears. “Let me see your hand.” Peter turns one of his bound wrists so that his palm is face up.

“Why?” Stiles looks at the open hand, then at Peter who now looks so serene. He hesitates and reaches his hand out cautiously. There would be no point in Peter attempting to hurt him now, not when Stiles has agreed to try and free him.

Peter's palm is warm, dry. He closes his fingers around Stiles’ hand and brushes his thumb along Stiles’ wrist bone. Light grey streaks appear on Peter's own wrist as he siphons pain from Stiles. The effect is almost instantaneous. Stiles vision clears, the harsh glare of the lighting doesn't stab behind into his eye sockets anymore. Tension that he wasn't aware of loosens from Stiles’ neck, shoulders, and back. Stiles watches him work his jaw while Peter stares at their joined hands as the pain leeches from Stiles and into his own body.

“You need to go home and sleep.” Peter speaks quietly. He flicks his gaze up to Stiles, flashing a quick smile. “After you speak to your father, of course.” The grey lines of pain dissipate, until they're left holding hands.

It doesn't feel as awkward as it should. Stiles is so incredibly tired and being free of tension and pain only makes the need for sleep more apparent to him. He is slow to pull back from Peter. Their fingertips brush against one another.

“I'll talk to my dad.” Stiles pushes himself to his feet. “If he says yes, you can't go after Scott. If you do, I'll make sure you die and stay dead.” He reminds himself that Peter shouldn't be trusted, that he can't afford to trust Peter.

Peter gives him a pleased smile. “I'm sure you'll do your best.”

It rankles him that Peter doesn't seem to take him seriously, but Stiles stays quiet as he knocks on the door to let Anderson know he's ready to leave early. No matter what, he knows what he'll do if it comes down to saving Scott and killing Peter. Just before he walks out, he hears Peter call out.

“Sleep well, angel.”

 

* * *

 

Adrenaline keeps Stiles alert on his drive from Eichen to the Sheriff's department. He pushes through the bullpen into his dad's office and says, “I need you to get Peter out of Eichen House.”

His dad is understandably taken aback when he looks up from whatever he's doing on his computer. “Peter Hale? You want me to let loose Peter Hale. Why?”

Stiles sighs, and wishes people would just do what the fuck he asks for once. Then again, it's not as if his dad's skepticism is unwarranted, considering Stiles and Scott had talked him into putting Peter there in the first place, not even two full months ago.

“Okay, you know how Malia's mom is the Desert Wolf and how she made Malia kill her adoptive family? Malia's been trying to find her, find out why. And now we have good reason to assume the Desert Wolf is coming here very soon to kill Malia. Peter can help us. He knows her, because, ya know. Malia's father and all that.” Stiles wrinkles his nose at the weird feeling in his gut. He runs a hand over his face.

His dad looks a little more than slightly frustrated when he asks, “and why am I just now hearing about this? Why didn't you tell me that's where Malia went? Who did she go with? Did you and Scott and her go off again without letting me know?” Stiles can see the leaps of thought his dad is making. He can hear the unspoken how did I miss this, again in his voice.  
Stiles winces. “No, dad. I didn't go anywhere without telling you. She took Deaton with her and told us about it when she was already gone.” He sighs. “Look, we don't have a lot of time, Dad. Peter is a werewolf, he can help us fight the Desert Wolf off. He knows things about werecoyotes that we don't. The Argent codex doesn't have much on them, so, otherwise, we're flying blind here.”

“I thought Peter wasn't at full strength since he came back from the dead? And why can't he just tell you what he knows from his cell. Stiles, do you really think releasing one murderer to get rid of another is a good idea?” His dad shakes his head. “You wanted him dead, for crying out loud.”

Stiles collapses on one of the chairs across from his dad's desk, knee bouncing wildly. “I know that. I know all of that. But he's not talking unless we let him out. And he might not be at full strength, but he can still withstand more than the average human. I'm also banking on his presence getting to the Desert Wolf. At the very least, he can be a distraction to her.

“Dad, she's going to kill Malia if we don't stop her. Lydia told me.” He looks at his dad with bald desperation. “I can't lose anyone else.”

His dad closes his eyes, hurt writ on his face. “Okay, son.” He's silent for several long moments while Stiles stares at him and chews on a nail. “I'll take care of it.”

They both stand and the relief is a physical thing in Stiles. He leans into the hug his dad gives him. “You look like you haven't slept in days. I thought it was just the lighting last night. Go home, go to bed. I'll take care of everything.” His dad kisses his hair, and Stiles pulls him in tightly for a beat.

“Thanks, dad.”

* * *

  
Peter's apartment is quiet when Stiles lugs his backpack inside. It had been a last minute decision to come here after heading home and lying in bed for a half hour with no hint of sleep despite the deep down ache of the need. Stiles pulls the frame he stole and puts it back on Peter's nightstand. He moves it once, twice until it looks like it is set up the same as before he first touched it. Peter's younger face smiles up at him, unaware of the destruction and loss he'll be facing in the near future. Stiles shakes the thoughts out of his head and goes back into the living room where he spreads his laptop and research out on the coffee table and sits down on the floor. He’s hoping the discomfort of the cement floor will keep him from falling asleep. The rug he's sitting on is soft and deep, but cement is still hard.

The message boards he has been lurking in are open on several different tabs, but there isn't anything noteworthy. Instead of focusing on that, he pulls out three small lumps of metal from one of the pockets on his bag. Today, he's going to practice levitation and turning random objects into projectile missiles. There will probably be collateral damage from misfiring, but Stiles didn't want to chance practicing in the preserve or in the alley. Peter has enough money to fix anything that might get broken.

Stiles doesn't know if the weird, sickish floaty feeling he has is going to help or hurt his magic. Bleakly, Stiles’ mind calls up the warning in one of Peter's books about the way magic depletes the user. His thoughts are disjointed, but now that there is, once again, nothing he can actively do to help the predicament, he's thankful to let his thoughts wander from anxiety to anxiety instead of dwelling on one particular worry until he has an attack. He takes a moment to watch the sky out of the bank of windows across from him. They sky is bright blue, without a cloud in sight. Stiles can't help but think of all the people in the world who are enjoying a beautiful day, without worry of impending injury and death.

Deep breath, then long exhale. Stiles shuts down his thoughts as much as possible and finds that nebulous flicker of magic inside. The metal in his hand becomes warm and three distinct areas of mass. Eyes closed, he pictures them slowly drifting up from his palm. Dull pain starts up in his temples and creeping back to the base of his skull. Stiles takes measured breaths in a careful rhythm while he feeds his magic towards the metal lumps. They're part of him now, and he can feel where they hover in the air, thirteen inches above him now. He clenches his jaw as blood starts to trickle out of one nostril. On an exhale, Stiles open his eyes, looks towards the wall to his side, and pushes the metal lumps at it with his mind. He hears three thuds and everything goes black.

 

Stiles shifts in his sleep and his eyelids slit open just enough to take in his immediate surrounding. His body is so incredibly tired, and he's barely half awake. The only things he notice are the softness of the pillow his head is on and the warm spot in the middle of his back. He closes his eyes, slips back into sleep.

 

The next time he opens his eyes, a gray light is streaming in through the shut blinds above him. All at once, Stiles is seized with panic at finding himself somewhere he has no memory of going. This isn't the floor of Peter's living room. Stiles twists onto his back and sits up in one movement so he can look around. He's scared of what or who he could see, of finding destruction that his body caused while his mind locked out of the decision process.

He's in a large bed with dark sheets and a dark patterned blanket. Across from the bed is a flat screen TV mounted to the wall with a low, long dresser below it. To his left is a door to what looks like the bathroom. He's in Peter's bed, still in his clothes and sneakers. Stiles tells himself to calm down, that he must have wandered in here just before collapsing on much needed sleep. Nothing else happened, he didn't do anything. The nogitsune is gone. Stiles notices his cell phone on the bedside table; it's plugged in and at full charge. Anxiety starts to spool in Stiles’ gut all over again.

He hurriedly grabs his phone and checks his notifications. His dad has texted him an _okay. Come home in the morning. We need to talk._ He's got a text from Scott too: _we need a plan._

When Stiles looks at the conversation history of his texts with his dad, he sees that his phone texted his dad at nine fifty-seven: _at Scott's for the night._

He doesn't remember sending that text message.

Stiles decides it's time to do some looking around. He has a strong suspicion at this point that he isn't in the apartment alone. After going to the bathroom, he slowly and quietly walks out of the bedroom. The sun has only been up for a half hour, but there are no curtains on the windows in the living room so it's fairly bright even though the apartment faces the west. Everything is still, quiet.

Peter is stretched out on the couch. Gone are the blue scrub pants and the white undershirt. He's wearing a short sleeved dark red tee and black and red plaid pajama bottoms. He's twisted half on his side, half on his back with one arm tucked behind his head. When Stiles circles around to him, he opens his eyes.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty.” Peter's eyes crinkle in amusement but he doesn't move otherwise. “I thought you'd be out longer, to be honest.”

Stiles gapes at him, relief washing through him. “What the hell? Why did I wake up in your bed? And did you text my dad?” He cannot believe this.

Peter sighs, like he's been so put upon, and turns onto his back fully. He crosses his ankles, drawing Stiles attention that his feet are bare. “Would you really have preferred me to leave you passed out on my living room floor, while you father worries about what you're up to?” He's calm, if a little amused by the conversation. Stiles gets a sudden mental image of a wolf stretching languidly.

“You should have just woke me up! Duh! It's kind of creepy that you put me in your bed, dude.” Stiles runs a hand over his hair, nervous energy in full force already.

“It was chivalrous. I slept on the couch, on my first night out of that hell hole, might I add.” Peter stands up finally and moves so he's less than a foot from Stiles. “Don't you think I could argue that,” he reaches forward and hooks his finger under the string around Stiles’ neck, “it's creepier for you to have a dubiously acquired key to my apartment and,” Peter runs his finger along the string until the key slides up from where it was hanging below Stiles’ shirt collar, “for you to invite yourself over, than for me to take you to bed?” He arches an eyebrow, and Stiles goes hot all over.

Stiles is frozen with Peter so close, still holding the dumb string around his neck. He can feel the heat rolling off of Peter. Stiles licks his bottom lip, mouth suddenly dry, and is transfixed when he sees Peter track the motion.

The moment passes though, because Stiles grabs the key and takes a step away from Peter. He pulls the makeshift necklace off. “Derek left it behind, on his counter. I didn't know what it went to for a while.” Stiles doesn't want to think about Peter finding the key while Stiles was passed out.

“But clever you, you figured it out soon enough.” Peter moves around Stiles. “Do you want anything to eat before you go?” He's in the kitchen, looking through his cupboards while he asks.

Stiles trails after him, confused and curious. He sets the key by the fruit basket he'd emptied of rotten produce last time he was here. “I don't think you'll find much food that isn't out of date.”

With a hum of annoyance, Peter agrees, “yes, I'm seeing that. Well,” he turns his keurig on, “there's always coffee, though we'll have to do without cream.”

Peter leans against the counter and crosses his arms as he waits for the water to heat. “You and your father are quite expedient when properly motivated. I wasn't expecting to be released until this morning, at the earliest.”

“If that's a thank you, it's pretty terrible.” Stiles props himself up on the tiled top of the island, dropping his face into his hands. “God, I'm fucking exhausted.” He mumbles the complaint.

“That's why I had hoped you would sleep longer.” Peter sounds almost chiding. “Magic requires a lot of energy, and it will take a toll on the body. It can even be a permanent toll.”

Stiles look up when he hears Peter pulling down coffee mugs and loading a kcup before he presses the button to start the coffee. Peter looks so domestic in this early morning light, with his rumpled sleep clothes, bare feet, and hair that is matted down a little on one side from where it was pressed against the arm of the couch. Looking at him, objectively, Stiles doesn't think anyone would peg him for a killer. When Stiles looks at him, even he has a isn't sure he always sees Peter as that.

“How do you know about the magic?” Stiles should have known better than to practice here, not when Peter would be released so soon. “Can you smell it?”

“Not in general. But I could smell ozone faintly when I found you. And I could see and smell your bloody nose. Then, of course, the three dents you made in my wall. You'll need to fix that, by the way.” Peter walks towards Stiles’, standing just in front of his knees where Stiles is sitting on the counter. He smiles a little and gives Stiles a look. “The spell books were a give away.”

Peter is _teasing_ him. Stiles feels the back of his neck heating with embarrassment at the obvious clues. Of course Peter would piece it together. “Pretty sure we have more important things to worry about than your wall.” He watches Peter move closer. “What are you doing?”

Peter has raised a hand, but pauses to look at it and then back to Stiles. “May I?”

Stiles is about to retort with _“may you what?”_ but then Peter is taking him by the chin, just his thumb and forefinger, and tilting Stiles’ head from side to side. Stiles can't see his eyes very well in the shadow of Peter standing away from the windows, but he smells faintly like soap and detergent. Still notices that Peter shaved his face back down to a short goatee last night. Did he do that before or after moving Stiles to the bed?

“You really need about four more hours of good sleep.” Peter brushes the pad of his thumb just below Stiles’ bottom lip, his eyes stay on Stiles’.

Stiles pushes Peter's hand away, annoyed, and a little bit flustered; he's relieved when Peter easily steps back from where he'd been standing between Stiles’ spread thighs. “You had to touch me to figure that out?”

“No, but it is more fun this way.” Peter answers flippantly. He looks over his shoulder to see that the first mug of coffee is finished, giving Stiles a little more space. While he goes back to the Keurig and starts up another round, he asks, “have my books been very useful?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I guess. Some of the stuff helps me focus, but the spells in your books aren't exactly the most useful to me.”

Peter slides the first mug towards Stiles along with the sugar bowl. “Oh, I doubt that. You've probably just been looking for obvious ones that would decapitate someone or something like that. Magic is usually a little more subtle.”

Measuring out three spoonfuls of sugar, Stiles mixes it into his coffee. He's reminded of that movie he used to watch with his mom sometimes, _Practical Magic_. Stiles lets go of the spoon and stares at it, willing it to keep moving in a circular motion by itself. The effort doesn't hurt at all this morning. He smiles a little when he succeeds.

“Cute,” Peter comments, smiling too. When Stiles pulls the spoon from his coffee and hands it over, Peter dries it on a dish towel hanging from the handle of one of his two ovens. “If they don't have what you want though,” he continues his line of thought regarding the books, “I can probably find something more to your taste.”

Stiles looks up from where he'd been blowing gently at the surface of his coffee. “Why and how?” He wants, he very much wants these books Peter is alluding to, but he also knows that Peter very rarely does anything without ulterior motive.

Peter doctors his own coffee with just one spoonful of sugar. “Magic is always useful.” He raises an eyebrow at Stiles as he takes a sip from his mug.

It's obvious Peter is making a verbal nod to using Lydia to resurrect himself while still being as vague as fucking possible. Stiles still isn't sure exactly how that happened considering the fact that Deaton had once mentioned weres can rarely perform any magic, much less something as advanced and complicated as raising the dead. Then again, Peter had needed the unwitting help of a banshee to accomplish as much.

“Okay, but how? Do you have a bunch more books in the Hale vault?” It's entirely possible. Stiles remembers having seen a huge array of things when he'd been stuck in there with Scott, Malia, and Kira.

Peter doesn't make eye contact when he admits, “no, most of my most valuable books were in the house. I do, however, have a decent connection to others who are interested in the occult. I could look into things.”

“Why am I not surprised that you know people in the black market.” Stiles shakes his head. He's still interested, but they don't have time for that right now.

Peter smirks and it grows into a smile when he sees Stiles shake his head in exasperation.

“What are we going to do about the Desert Wolf?” Stiles asks, doesn't mean for it to come quite so unsure. He groans, and starts twisting his mug around by the handle. “I mean, you're out now, and that was the deal…”

Peter sets his mug down, and braces his elbows on the counter across from Stiles. “We are going to kill her.” He tips his head to the side. “ _I'm_ going to kill her.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

The pack plus Peter convene in Scott's kitchen at noon. By that point, it feels as if Stiles has already lived a whole day after dealing with Peter’s weird idea of hospitality then going home to have his dad lecture him about safety and making smart decisions and _for the love of all things good, son, give me a little more warning before you and your friends decide to take on another murderer_. So he stands across from Scott, next to Lydia and Malia, while Liam and Kira take the other two sides of the island. Peter, Stiles notices, is leaning artfully against the sink with a bored expression on his face. He's standing behind Malia; occasionally he looks at his estranged daughter with an unreadable expression on his face.

“If she's coming for you, we can at least have home advantage.” Scott is saying. “She’ll be coming for Malia, which means she will need to learn Malia's routine, and we already have someone with you pretty much all the time.” Scott looks at Malia.

“She's a werecoyote, Scott. I didn't need to know where the rabbits liked to eat before I hunted them down. I just smelled them and went for them.” Malia shakes her head, and Peter smiles behind her. “When she comes for me, it's going to happen suddenly, no warning.”

“But you won't be alone.” Kira points this fact out, clings to it really, like it will make all the difference.

Peter clears his throat. “Does anyone know what happens when a female werecoyote gives birth?” He scans the small group, lingering on Stiles for just a moment before continuing when no one volunteers a sudden understanding of the werecoyote subset. “When she becomes pregnant, and as the child inside grows, a part of her power is funneled into her offspring. By the time the child is born, it has at least a quarter of the power of its mother.”

“So?” Malia spits the question out, impatient for Peter to make his point and shut up. “Werecoyotes are stronger than other shapeshifters.”

Peter nods. “And how do you think a werecoyote who uses her strength and cunning for a living might feel if she knew she would be losing a quarter or more of it?” He arches a brow.

Malia turns fully to face Peter and crosses her arms. “She wants to kill me because she wants her power back?” She is skeptical.

The summation of the Desert Wolf’s most likely motive turns Stiles’ stomach. He hadn't been looking for why Malia's mother might want her dead. As horrible as the whole idea is on its own, he thinks it is much more upsetting to have such a callous reason. It's all about power. It's always about power.

“It is better than merely wanting to kill you for the fun of it.” Peter’s expression goes dark. “You're right; she's going to come for you quickly. But she's going to be coming _right for you_. She'll need to get her claws or teeth in you to reclaim the power she still views as her own.”

Stiles has a sudden thought. “It'll be on the full moon, when her power is at its peak, won't it?” He looks past Malia to Peter.

“It's what I would do.” Peter’s mouth pulls downward. “That gives us a week. She is probably already in the area though.”

Scott exchanges a worried look with Liam. “If it's on the full moon…”

“I can handle it. I've been getting better.” Liam hisses to Scott, glancing nervously at Peter.

“Good.” Malia nods. “She wants me at my strongest? I'll use it against her.” Stiles is positive her eyes must be glowing electric blue.

Peter looks almost proud. He catches Stiles’ eye and smiles slowly.

 

* * *

 

“Hello, father.” Stiles plops down on the couch beside his dad and kicks his feet up onto the coffee table.

“Stiles,” his dad gives him a look. “How was the pack meeting? Was Peter useful?”

“Eh.” Stiles seesaws his hand in the air. “He claims to really not remember anything about his baby mama. But he did have something interesting to share about one aspect of werecoyote biology. Apparently, the mothers end up giving a huge chunk of their power to their baby. We are like ninety-nine point nine percent positive that the Desert Wolf is going to attack under the full moon when Malia will be at her strongest. That way, she can steal her power plus some from Malia. By killing her.”

Stiles wrinkles his nose, forcing himself not to remember the way Boyd had been pushed onto Derek's claws, forcing the alpha to kill his beta and absorb his power. Stiles absolutely does not imagine Malia impaled on some faceless woman's claws, a her bright blue eyes flickering out and going dull. Instead, he pictures the disturbingly familiar image of Peter killing. This is the first time that has ever been a comfort.

“The full moon is on a Saturday night this month.” His dad sighs, likely thinking of how many people are usually out on the weekends, all the different ways he's going to need to coordinate with Parish to keep as many bystanders from getting hurt as possible. “The Beacon County Fair runs all weekend.”

Stiles winces. He'd forgotten about that completely. Stupid, considering the fliers that go up every year and the fact that his dad stresses over it every time because there is always an uptick in petty crimes and brawling during the fair. Shit. Stiles sighs, focusing on the half-plan they came up with.

“Yeah, but we figure if she's coming after Malia, we can choose where it all goes down. And we decided on the preserve. Almost no one should be out there, especially if the camping site is closed down because of repairs or something…” Stiles gives his dad his most winning smile.

His dad looks heavenward, as if asking silently for help from his blatantly manipulative son. “Stiles, I don't like having to lie to people like this.” He sighs. “But if it will save lives, I guess I don't have much choice.”

Stiles throws an arm around his dad's shoulders and squeezes his bicep. “Yep, it's all about saving lives.” He's relieved to have his dad not fight him on this, even if he does feel a little sick at needing to use his dad's position, yet again, like this.

“Have you contacted Argent? Or that Braeden girl, the bounty hunter? I think you'll need someone like them, someone who has an idea of how to do this sort of thing. And I'm going with you too.” His dad's voice is hard, all business, to match his steely eyes. “Don't argue with me about this. If you're going into a life and death fight, I'm going with you, Stiles.”

Warmth blooms inside Stiles’ chest at his dad's words. It's love and loyalty and everything good in his world, but fear chokes Stiles’ throat at the thought of his dad being caught in the middle of a supernatural fight, again. He clenches his jaw to hold back his arguments against his dad joining the fray.

“Braeden has been contacted, but she hasn't responded and Scott is the only one with Chris Argent's number. I don't know if he'd come back for this. It has nothing to do with him.” Stiles doesn't particularly want to see him anyway, not so soon after Alison's death, maybe never.

“You need to call him, Stiles. Even if he doesn't want to come back, he might know someone who can help. There's no reason not to ask for help.”

“I am. We are asking for help. That's why we have Peter and you.” Stiles realizes how pathetic that sounds, if you look at it from an outside perspective. He really hopes Braeden will show up in the nick of time, maybe even with Derek and his weird werewolf/not werewolf self.

His dad rubs his face with a hand. “I will bring the bullets Chris gave me.” After a beat, he looks at Stiles. “And if Peter tries any funny business, he's getting one between the eyes.”

It's funny except his dad is serious. Stiles grins, just incredibly happy that his dad is his dad. “Sounds fair enough.”

 

* * *

 

He finds out Peter saved his number to his phone later that night when he gets a text message.

Peter, 9:243 PM: _you could have at least been nice enough to run a load of laundry._

Stiles bumps his elbow on his desk when he moves too quickly to get a better look at the preview on his lockscreen. Sure enough, he's got a brand new conversation log started with Peter Hale. Stiles hadn't even had his number when they were all working together to fight the alpha pack.

Stiles, 9:24 PM: _I'm not a maid. Why did you put your number in my phone?_

Peter, 9:24 PM: _how else am I going to get in touch? Unless you want me to take up lurking in your bedroom like my nephew was prone to doing? Anything you want to confess, Stiles?_

Stiles rolls his eyes, pausing the game he's playing. His character has already been killed, respawned, and killed again twice because he set the controller down for two minutes.

Stiles, 9:25 PM: _definitely not. Do you actually need smth or did you just want to bitch at someone_

Peter, 9:26 PM: _if you're offering…_

Stiles, 9:26 PM: _not offering_

Stiles blushes for no good reason. He hates the way Peter is able to get under his skin with just a handful of slightly suggestive words.

Peter, 9:26 PM: _shame. :(_

Peter, 9:27 PM: _thank you for getting rid of the old food._

Stiles, 9:28 PM: _yw. It was smelling p gross in there._

Peter, 9:28 PM: _I can imagine._

Peter's quick responses have Stiles inadvertently thinking about how lonely Peter must be. Before Derek left and Scott had him put in Eichen, Peter had had Derek to bug and hang around. Now, Peter is in that building by himself, after spending almost three months locked away with only sadistic doctors and apathetic staff members surrounding him. In that light, Stiles can understand Peter latching onto him a little now. Hell, in a way, it's exactly what Stiles had been hoping for when his plan for visiting Peter at Eichen first hatched. Gain his trust, his confidence, and find a way to keep everyone safe from Peter.

It was an incredibly manipulative plan. Stiles  is certain it’s the sort of scheme Peter would use himself. That notion, identifying so strongly with Peter always makes Stiles uncomfortable. Mostly because of how Stiles sometimes finds himself forcing himself to think of it as a bad thing, because he it _should_ feel weird. Truthfully, there are many similarities between him and Peter, things that Stiles doesn't really want to examine. So he doesn't. Besides, Peter has survived a lot of shit and even dragged his ass back from the dead. There's something undeniably impressive about that.

Stiles, 9:32 PM: _my dad wants me to get Scott to bring Argent in on this_

Peter, 9:33 PM: _We can do this without Argent. But I can see why your father would feel better if Argent was with us._

Stiles, 9:33 PM: _are you agreeing with my dad???_

Peter, 9:33 PM: _No._

That succinct answer says a lot. Even now, Peter doesn't trust Chris Argent, even though Argent has helped save many of their lives, time and again. Derek trusts Argent, to an extent at least. But then, he supposes, Derek doesn't seem to have the knack for holding grudges the way Peter does.

Stiles bites at a fingernail as he types with his other hand.

Stiles, 9:35 PM: _why haven't you tried killing me yet? I tried setting you on fire & I tried talking other people into agreeing to kill you. _

It wouldn't have even taken more than everyday human strength to kill Stiles when he'd been passed out at Peter's.

Stiles gets up and moves to the bed, lying on his belly so he can hug a pillow to his chin while he stares at his phone intently. The little typing bubble that pops up from Peter's side of the conversation mocks him. Stiles rocks one leg, causing his whole body to sway. He shouldn't have asked.

Peter, 9:38 PM: _I know why you do what you do,and I respect it, even if it pisses me off. If you're somehow trying to equate your actions to that of the Argents’, rest assured, you don't even come close._

A weight seems to lift right off Stiles, despite the guilt that tries to take its place. He rereads Peter's text message and bites his lip. Peter's judgement of Stiles’ character doesn't hold much clout, considering everything Peter has done. Logically, Stiles knows he isn't responsible for all the death the nogitsune caused while it possessed Stiles, but that doesn't keep him from condemning himself in his darkest moments.

He doesn't know what to say to that. A thank you would be kind of dumb, even if part of him is grateful; it seems like a bad precedent to set, thanking Peter for assuaging Stiles’ guilt and being a source of emotional comfort. It feels like Stiles would be revealing too much of himself. Instead of continuing the conversation with Peter, Stiles tosses his phone onto his nightstand and rolls over so he can get back to his video game.

 

* * *

 

 

They're sitting in Stiles’ Jeep, the radio playing softly, and the windows rolled down. Stiles runs his fingers over the steering wheel, then hits it with the palm of his hand.

“How is our life? Who the fuck did we piss off in a past life to deserve this?” Stiles can't stop thinking about the fact that, once again, it's like they've got a ticking time bomb on their hands. One wrong move, cut the wrong wire, and everything explodes.

Malia has been quiet, staring out of the windshield. They had to ditch Scott and Kira, who were a little too busy being cutesy to notice Malia sneaking out to jump into Stiles’ Jeep without any intention of keeping a babysitter with her. Stiles would feel bad, except he's still kind of annoyed he doesn't count as back up. Besides, it's not like Malia has been fully on board with this aspect of the plan. She has stated more than once that she works better alone.

“I think we should break up.” Malia speaks towards the windshield, nods, then looks at Stiles. “This. This isn't working.”

Stiles’ kneejerk reaction is to splutter. “Whoa, hoo, wait a minute. You want to break up? Now?” He turns his body towards Malia, reaches out to grab her hand which she lets him catch. “Why?”

He doesn't want to end things, not yet anyway. It's felt like they've let this relationship limp along for a while, but it just seems crazy to end it now, not when in a matter of days someone is literally going to be looking to kill them.

“I can't do this, Stiles. I don't...it doesn't feel right. And with the Desert Wolf coming for me, and you could get hurt…” Malia growls, upset. “No. It is just better if we...we breakup.”

Stiles lets go of her hand. “You're dumping me because I might get hurt? Are you fucking serious? Do you not remember all those times I helped save people's lives? I'm not going anywhere just because you're the target right now. I'm going to stay with you.”

Malia looks at him, unreadable. “I know that, Stiles. We're pack. I would kill for you. I know you'd do the same, no matter what Scott thinks. But I don't think…” she shakes her head. “It doesn't feel right when we're together. It doesn't feel quite right in my heart.” Malia makes a face at her own explanation.

Stiles feels cold with dread. He looks at Malia and knows she's made up her mind. The scariest part of it is that Stiles agrees with her, feels almost _free_. An ache forms in his chest though, at the knowledge that they're losing something, even if they never truly had it before. He wonders if this is what his first heartbreak is supposed to feel like.

Malia folds her arms over her chest, hugging herself, but still maintaining a strength of resolve. “We aren't like Scott and Kira. Or anything like you said he and Allison were. I don't, I don't think I'm _in_ love with you.”

“Malia, that's just Scott. That's how he is! That isn't how everyone has to be in order to love someone.” Stiles grits his teeth. He feels a sting of betrayal—from who, he doesn't quite know—at being compared to his best friend.

“I know that! But it's still not what it's supposed to be like. Stiles, I can smell it on you! You agree with me. Every time you were talking, your heartbeat gave you away. You don't want to be with me either, not like that. I can't keep doing this! _We_ can't keep doing this.

“It's hard enough trying to be me, fit in with high school, catch up on _everything_ , and try not to kill anyone on the full moon, without also pretending that we're in love when I know we aren't.” Malia’s breath comes out harshly, swept up in her outburst.

“I just wanted to help.” Stiles slumps in his seat, head tilted back. He feels the fight go out of him. Closing his eyes against the sting of hot tears, he apologizes. “I'm sorry.” The words come out softly.

He hopes Malia knows what he's apologizing for. He isn't even sure what it is exactly. He's sorry for being an accomplice in getting them into this mess. He's sorry he tried to make it something it would never be. He's sorry for pressuring her to be normal too soon. Mostly, he's sorry they're stuck with the fucked up lives they have.

Malia is quiet again, and the silence drags out, until he feels her fingers clutch at his forearm. He looks up and opens his mouth but the expression on her face stops him.

She is scanning the surroundings, and her head tilts like she hears something. Goosebumps pop up on Stiles’ skin. He inches his body so he's sitting correctly and reaches for the ignition just as something large jumps on the hood of the Jeep.

Stiles gets a glimpse of the woman punching through the windshield at Malia, but then he gets distracted, shutting his eyes and turning the key, hand already reaching for the gear shift so he can reverse and get the fuck out of here.

Malia yells, “drive.” It's more of a roar because she's shifted into baring her claws and fangs, eyes lit up bright blue. She pushes forward to claw at their attacker.

“Shit, shit, shit!” Stiles grimaces because the motion of the Jeep doesn't do much to dismount the woman who is trying to crawl through the jagged hole she made of the windshield. He spares a thought for how much replacing that is gonna cost him later. “I thought she wasn't supposed to be here until Saturday?”

Stiles does his best to weave the Jeep around enough to try and sling the Desert Wolf off without rolling them in the process. He and Malia had been parked along a clearing by the preserve so they could talk without anyone overhearing them, so Malia could get a little space. At least one detail of the plan ended up working. Being out here should keep anyone else from getting hurt or for panicked bystanders to call the authorities and cause extra headaches for his dad. Of course, being out alone also means help is going to be difficult to reach.

Stiles digs his phone out of his pocket with one hand, eyes moving from the parking lot in front of him to the struggle happening on the roof of his Jeep. “Scotty, we got a problem! I'm on the east side of the preserve. The Desert Wolf is here!” He drops his phone, hoping Scott got all of that.

Malia is pulled through the window with a yell as her arm is pulled out of its socket. The sound turns Stiles’ stomach, but he accelerates when he finds the road leading from the parking lot. He grabs Malia's leg to try and pull her back in. There's a lot of yelling and grunting, a spray of blood splatters across Stiles’ face.

“Stiles, go!” Malia looks back from where she's struggling with her mother. She kicks her leg free, and shimmies out of the cab of the fucking Jeep.

He watches her shove the Desert Wolf off the hood and they go tumbling on the ground. Stiles has to swerve to make sure he doesn't run over Malia. The wheels squeal when he hits the breaks and throws the Jeep into park. He grabs his baseball bat out of the floorboard in the back before stumbling out of the Jeep.

Malia is pinned to the ground as the Desert Wolf crouches over her, talking. He tries to be quiet, sneak up on her, even though he knows it’s impossible.

“—wait until the full moon, but—” the Desert Wolf looks over her shoulder at Stiles. She scoffs. “Looks like your little boyfriend is an idiot. No loss there, I suppose.” She looks back at Malia and Stiles can see the claws she has in Malia's chest twist. Malia whimpers, grabbing uselessly at the arm pinning her to the ground.

“You might want to reconsider who the idiot here is.” Stiles uses all his might to swing the bat at the Desert Wolf’s head. It connects with a sick thud.

Stiles has a moment to realize he actually hit her, as the vibration ripples into his elbows and shoulders. Then, she's letting out a loud, a scary as fuck roar and coming for him. He scrambles backwards, fingers tight around the bat. Her fingers grab for his shirt, catch him by the collar. She twists and yanks him forward.

“Leave him _alone_!” Malia yells, jumping on the Desert Wolf's back so she can get her arm around her throat to choke her.

It's enough of a distraction that Stiles can get free. He jabs the end of the bat in her stomach, then swings it at her knee cap until there a loud pop and crack that means he hit true. He hits the other one, the Desert Wolf's screams the only thing he can hear. She collapses beneath the weight of Malia on her back, falling into a heap on the ground.

“I'm going to rip you limb from limb!” The Desert Wolf’s eyes are angry, so bright blue they glow as she glares up at Stiles.

Malia grabs Stiles by the wrist and starts running. “We have to get out of here. Come on!”

They run, leaving the Desert Wolf cursing on the ground. Stiles shakes his head when he catches sight of his Jeep. He redirects Malia. “This way.”

 

* * *

 

 

“But it doesn't make sense for her to do it now.” Scott shrugs. “We're strongest on the full moon. She wants your power, so why wouldn't she wait until it's at its peak?”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Power is power, Scott.” When everyone looks at where he is standing behind the couch, he makes a face. “She thinks Malia stole something from her, and she's been waiting eighteen years to get it back.”

Malia adds, “she kept talking about reclaiming what was rightfully hers, like I _wanted_ to take her power.” She curls her hands into fists.

Kira leans into her side.

Stiles paces in front of Scott's tv. “So we are back to not having a fucking clue when she is going to strike next. Great. Fan-fucking-tastic. How are we supposed to fight this?” He stops and locks eyes with Peter.

Scott is the one who speaks, “we'll figure something out. We can use her need for revenge against her. Just, for now, everyone needs to go home. My mom is going to be getting off her shift soon. Go get some rest.”

The group disperses and Stiles goes outside to his Jeep. He opens his door and gets the baseball bat out again so he can use it to knock out the remainder of his windshield window the little glass beads roll across the hood of his Jeep.

“That’s going to cost a pretty penny.” Peter speaks from just behind Stiles’ shoulder, causing Stiles to jump. He steadies Stiles with a hand on the elbow. “My, you are jumpy tonight.”

Stiles readjusts his grip on the baseball bat head tilting back in exasperation. The stars are obscured by sightless clouds tonight. He watches an airplane make its way across the sky; Stiles imagines all the people up there, going on a trip, going home, going to work, and not knowing anything about the supernatural. There's no one constantly trying to kill them.

Peter moves in front of Stiles. “Let me follow you to an auto shop, drive you home. I can take care of the Jeep in the morning.”

Stiles just stares at Peter. He's still shaking with adrenaline, coming down from the fight with the Desert Wolf. He doesn't even remember the drive to Scott's. Just remembers the need to get away. “Fine."

His dad sounds just as worried as Stiles figured he would be when he called. Stiles closes his eyes and presses back into the passenger seat of Peter's car, listening to his dad on the phone while Peter drives.

“Stiles, you should have called me sooner. I should have been there.” He sighs, resigned. “You're not hurt though, right? And Malia?”

“Yeah, Dad. We're okay.” He's surprised that he managed to get out of that fight with little more than a scratch from where the Desert Wolf’s claws got him on the chest. It barely even stings. “Uh, Roscoe took another hit. Busted windshield.”

His dad chuckles without humor. “If it's between you and the Jeep, I don't care if that thing gets totaled. But don't worry, I'll find a way to get it fixed. Are you staying with Scott tonight?”

Stiles glances at Peter from the corner of his eye, hesitating for some reason. They're heading towards Stiles’ house, but going home right now, to an empty house, doesn't feel right. He doesn't want to stew with his thoughts and imagination just yet.

“I don't know. I'll text you.” He sees Peter raise an eyebrow. “I'll talk to you later. Bye, Dad.”

“I love you, son.”

“Love you too.” Stiles ends the call. He turns to Peter and says, “I don't want to go home right now.

Peter looks at Stiles, then back to the road. He makes a U-turn.

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

He should be crawling into his bed instead of sitting down heavily on Peter's couch. Last time he checked, it was after one in the morning. The edges around Stiles’ awareness are fuzzy with tiredness, but he feels too awake, mind too jazzed to allow for sleep yet. Stiles props his elbows on his thighs and hangs his head, weary. He hears some rustling, the kitchen faucet turn on, then off, then he feels the air disturbance when Peter sits on the coffee table in front of him. Peter takes one of Stiles’ wrists where they are resting against his head, and pulls his arm away.

“Here.” A damp cloth pushes into his hand, and Stiles looks at it before looking at Peter, questioning. “There is dry blood all over your face and neck.” He makes a slightly disgusted face.

Stiles mumbles a thanks and starts scrubbing at the mess. It's not something he's going to be able to clean too well with just a wet rag. His stomach churns a little at the sight of the reminder that he could have died, Malia could have died, tonight. He looks at Peter sitting in front of him, brows knit as he examines Stiles. There's a stack of battered paperbacks next to Peter's hip, the books Stiles brought to him in Eichen house. Peter apparently took them with him when he left.

Stiles gets up so he can go to the bathroom and clean off with a little more precision. Now that he's been reminded of the blood, his skin feels tight, itchy under the flakes. Good thing the auto shop has a key drop box for customers, otherwise the police probably would have been called on him for looking like he just killed someone.

Stiles turns on the bathroom sink and uses warm water to rinse the wash cloth several times between passes on his face and neck. When he's mostly clean, Stiles shuts the water off and pulls his t-shirt off. Three bright red, shallow scratches sit just above his breast bone. It hurts, but the skin is barely broken. Stiles sighs, inspecting his shirt to see if it's salvageable.

“You can borrow this.” Peter is suddenly right there, standing in the doorway. When Stiles startles, Peter comes closer. He’s got a folded grey shirt in his hand.

“Jesus, could you stop with the lurking?”

Stiles wads up his own shirt and tosses it into the sink before snatching the one Peter offers. His face feels warm for no real reason. It's a relief to pull the shirt over his head. When he looks down at himself, he can see the scratches the Desert Wolf left because Peter gave him a v-neck. Of course, he is pretty sure Peter doesn't own anything but v-necks and henleys he can leave unbuttoned. Stiles scoffs, running his fingers absentmindedly over the material; it's light, soft.

“I don't think it's possible to lurk in my own apartment.” Peter doesn't look apologetic in the least. He looks over Stiles, assessing. “I'm impressed. I would have bet you'd end up in the hospital at best.” His gaze fixes on Stiles’ chest and neck.

Stiles shoulders past Peter, heading back into the living room. “Yeah, well I've gotten good with a baseball bat. Plus, Malia was the one doing all the heavy lifting.” He grimaces, remembering the way Malia had reset her own shoulder.

Manic energy keeps Stiles jittery. He decides against sitting down, is thirsty, so he stalks into the kitchen and pulls open the refrigerator door. Looks like Peter went shopping. Stiles grabs a Gatorade and cracks open the lid. He has half of it chugged by the time Peter reappears.

“Please, help yourself to refreshments.” Sarcasm rolls out of Peter's mouth even though there's an amused tilt to his lips as he positions himself next to Stiles. His eyes are assessing, running over Stiles' from head to foot.

Stiles gets the impression that if circumstances were different, Peter would be touching him with more than just his gaze. He wipes his mouth off with the back of a hand and ignores the thought, the weight of Peter's visual inspection. “Uh, in case you forgot, fighting for your life tends to work up a thirst. Gotta replace those electrolytes.”

Peter snorts softly, moment broken, and leans back against the counter while Stiles finishes off the drink. It satisfied one need, but Stiles is still almost vibrating in place from the fight. He had been able to contain himself during the debriefing, but he'd had something to concentrate on. Coming here was a bad idea. He should have gone home like his dad asked him. Instead, he's standing in this kitchen at two in the morning, watching Peter watch him as Stiles makes a very bad decision. Stiles tightly twists the lid back on when he's drained the bottle. He spins the bottle after laying it on its side, giving himself one more chance to be smart.  When he looks back at Peter; the man has an eyebrow slightly raised.

His mouth is soft when Stiles crashes against him. He's got Peter by the front of his shirt, holding him close and Peter's cologne floods Stiles’ nose, a dark and spicy scent. When Peter's hand comes up to cradle his jaw, Stiles melts against him. Peter kisses back with decisive pressure and a warm roll of his tongue when Stiles’ seeks entrance. Stiles presses forward until the two of them are flush from chest to knee as if he wants the two of them to merge into one being. He gets lost in the feeling, Peter real and solid against him, kissing deep as if this isn't their first kiss but something they've done over and over. Stiles wants more, to know more and feel more of this here and now, suspend time and worry. He lets go of the fistful of shirt he has and runs his hand down Peter's chest to curl his fingers into the top of Peter's jeans.

Peter tugs Stiles’ bottom lip with his teeth, running the tip of his tongue along the captured flesh, but then he releases while he grabs Stiles wrist in warning. “Flattering, but” Peter's voice is lower than usual. It causes a wave of arousal to sweep down to Stiles’ groin despite what sounds like rejection even as Peter presses his nose to Stiles’ temple. “I don't think I want to be your mistake.” Peter gently pulls Stiles’ hand away from the button of his jeans.

Mortification is an icy realization as the words pierce through the haze of endorphins and an eager need to stop thinking. Stiles tries wrenching away so he can put space between them and attempt to corral the anxiety spiking up inside. Stupid. He's _so stupid!_ He knew this was a fucking bad idea, but apparently even Peter is above fucking Stiles.

Peter doesn't let him go.

Stiles is suddenly pushed down, bent over the counter with his cheek against the tile. The only reason his head doesn't get goose-egged is because Peter pillowed it with one hand while his other presses against the base of his skull. Panic shoots through Stiles, knocking the shame and embarrassment away as he is viscerally reminded of the way Peter had thrown him down across the trunk of a car all those months ago.

“What the _fuck_. Let go of me!” Stiles tries pushing up, clawing at Peter's arm, but Peter shifts so he's standing behind Stiles and out of range. “Let go!”

Peter leans over him, it's so fucking similar to when Peter had trapped him in that parking garage. Instead of threatening him though, Peter says, “count to one thousand for me.” It almost sounds like a question except his voice is calm and commanding. All the writhing Stiles is doing to try and get free doesn't seem to bother him at all.

Stiles spits out, “fuck you. Count to fucking thousand yourself.” He struggles some more but Peter grabs his arm and wrenches it behind Stiles’ back just enough so it makes his shoulder ache. “Come on, Stiles. Count for me.” He's leaning over Stiles, challenging him as warmth seeps into Stiles’ back. Peter is close enough that Stiles’ feels him rub his nose and mouth across the short hairs on the back of his neck.

Hot tears of frustration prick Stiles’ eyes but he refuses to cry. He shivers despite himself. “Let. Go. Of. Me.” He keeps fighting Peter's hold on him to no avail for several long moments until he has to stop because it is clearly useless.

“Finished?” Peter straightens up, but doesn't ease his grip on Stiles’ arm or the one pressing along the hinge of his jaw. “One thousand.”

Stiles grits his teeth. He doesn't know what the hell Peter is up to or what counting is supposed to accomplish. Prostrate against his will like this and being commanded to fucking _count_ makes anger and shame boil up inside Stiles. Without realizing he's even doing it, Stiles feels the spark rear up inside, until he can direct it, push towards Peter.

Peter hisses but doesn't let go. Instead he presses his face into the crook of Stiles’ neck. “ _Stiles_.” It isn't pissed off or angry. The word comes out breathless and pleased. Peter twists the arm he has pinned behind Stiles’ back a little more.

“You've come so far in such a short time.” Stiles is acutely aware of Peter's lips against his skin as the man speaks softer this time. “I can feel you in my head, like knives scraping  against  bone.” Peter sounds so _pleased_. He takes a breath, and hums. “Count for me, sweet boy.”

Stiles grits his teeth, shaking all over, but he reins in his magic and releases Peter from the blunt psychic attack. Peter isn't letting go of him. He starts counting. The words come out through a clenched jaw. “One. Two. Three. Four.”

“Good, Stiles.” Peter purrs above him but Stiles just spits out the next numbers, ignoring him.

Stiles gets to sixty-four, glaring at the refrigerator across from him. He can feel the tears trickle out of the corners of his eyes. He's so fucking angry and hurt and embarrassed he feels incandescent with it. He wants to scream and tear into someone because nothing goes right. Peter stays quiet, doesn't move to hurt Stiles more or to alleviate the discomfort his body is in. By three hundred and twenty-five, Stiles has to close his eyes as the tears dry up. He doesn't know why his life has to be like this, so messed up. It isn't fair; it isn't fucking fair. He keeps counting though, his voice cracking with emotion, going hoarse. At four hundred and eighty-three, Stiles starts focusing on the words, the numbers. He opens his eyes which are blurry now and feels like he's slipping away. The whirlwind of feelings inside fades away and all that exists is the dull ache of his shoulder and the numbers rolling out of his mouth. The emptiness is almost frightening except he can feel Peter's hold on him, anchoring him and guiding him in the void left after his worries fade. The rest of the numbers go almost too quickly, but when Stiles says “one thousand” he feels like he can actually breathe.

Peter places a soft kiss just behind Stiles’ ear and relaxes his hold on Stiles’ arm, placing it gently by Stiles’ side so the blood can resume proper circulation. He runs a hand down Stiles’ back then again over his hair. “You did good.”

Stiles shudders, lying across the edge of the counter even as Peter backs away from him. He feels a little slow but it's nice. When he doesn't stand on his own, Peter wraps an arm around Stiles’ chest and hauls him up.

“Fuck.” Stiles mutters the word and tips his head to rest against Peter's collar bone. Vaguely, he isn't okay with this, not completely, but he can't find the desire to care just yet. He follows when Peter starts moving away.

“Come on.” Peter leads them into the bedroom. His hand doesn't leave Stiles’ waist until they get to the bed.

Stiles flops backwards onto it. The lights are off, everything shadows, and the bed is soft. He sighs, riding the floaty feeling of an empty mind.

“Are you with me?” Peter asks, sitting down next to Stiles. He squeezes Stiles’ thigh once. “Stiles?”

Stiles reaches up and runs his fingers along the underside of Peter's forearm but lets his hand drop back to the bed. He's really fucking tired and he just wants to sleep now. “Shut up.”

Peter pats Stiles’ leg twice and chuckles quietly. Then he's gone. Stiles can hear him moving around, the sound of fabric rustling. Stiles’ shoes get tugged off his feet, then his socks.

“If you want to get comfortable, you're going to have to do it yourself.” Peter is braced on his hands, leaning over the edge of the bed and Stiles. His breath fans across Stiles’ face.

Groaning, Stiles lifts his hips to undo and shimmy out of his jeans so he can kick them to the floor. “There.” Stiles huffs.

He rolls over to crawl up the bed properly and get under the blanket. When Peter gets in beside him, Stiles curses again, tiredly. “What the fuck was that?”

“You needed to calm down. I got you to calm down.” Peter rolls so he's facing Stiles. “How is your shoulder?”

“Fine. I don't even feel anything now.” He looks over at Peter despite the fact that he can't really see him. “Seriously, dude, what the hell was that?” Stiles covers his eyes with one hand, feeling overwhelmed suddenly. “God, just _what the fuck_.”

Peter presses a hand to Stiles’ sternum, just below the scratches there.

Peter lets him have his freakout, palm warm on Stiles’ chest. He doesn't say anything gross or creepy, but he doesn't say anything to make Stiles feel better either. The silence is thick while Stiles yells at himself internally. He feels like a joke. Making a move on Peter fucking Hale and getting shut down by possibly the skeeviest guy he knows. And then, fuck, being held down and told to count to a thousand?  Like that shit makes any sense? The worst part is how good it had felt by the end, not needing to think about anything but the next number. Stiles knows it means something, and that he should be a lot more pissed off at Peter than he is. This really isn't something he wants to examine though, and definitely not right now.

Finally, Stiles just sighs heavily and scrubs a hand over his face. Whatever. He needs to sleep. If Peter was really going to hurt him, he would have done it already.  The echo of an ache in his shoulder throbs just enough to remind him that Peter has already hurt him, even if Stiles benefited from the results. Stiles runs his hand down his face.

He doesn't know why this feels so fucking fraught. Stiles groans with frustration because his mind is coming back online now. Whatever weird clarity he'd ended up with by the time he finished counting is vanishing. He closes his eyes and tries to catch that peace again.

With a sudden rush of movement, Stiles finds himself pulled across the mattress and Peter leaning over him again. The scent of his soap and the heat rolling off of him feels so tangible. Stiles’ eyes open, and he swallows loudly.

“Uh, what's up, dude?” It's nerves, but Stiles sits up a little. He doesn't want to sink into the urge to give Peter any more ground, even if he craves the escape. Stiles has had enough humiliation for one night.

Peter is quiet for a long moment. Stiles can feel his chest expand and contract with breath, right against his own. Peter shifts down, lying on his side facing Stiles. His hand slides down Stiles’ chest, almost hesitant. Stiles feels every minute movement.

“I missed this.” Peter sounds far away. He continues. “Humans are a tactile species. Werewolves even moreso.” His fingers spread over Stiles’ stomach and the ache in Stiles’ shoulder disappears. Their legs brush against each other when he fidgets.

“So what, you're like sad because no one's hugged you in a while?” Stiles jokes nervously. “Why did you turn down a fuck, then?” His voice cracks and he winces.

“Sex is wonderful. It can be fulfilling and fun. It can be dirty and consuming.” Peter's hand drifts lower; Stiles sucks in a breath. “It can be a distraction.” He slides his fingers beneath the hem of Stiles’ shirt. His hand is so warm, a brand on Stiles’ skin. “That's what you want, isn't it? To be distracted.”

Stiles huffs but can't find words. He feels so fucking young right now. He's lying in bed with a murderer, a guy who is practically old enough to be his dad. For fuck’s sake Peter is Stiles’ ex-girlfriend’s father. _Fuck_. Every ounce of calm he'd achieved in the kitchen has evaporated.

“What do you want?” Stiles turns his head towards Peter.

“Everything. Everything, Stiles.” Peter settles, curled around him, arm banded across Stiles’ waist.

Stiles wants to demand elaboration, explanation. He should do that. He should get up, get dressed, and call Scott to come pick him up. Stiles doesn't do any of that though. He lies in the dark, breath syncing with Peter's, and closes his eyes.

He doesn't fall asleep for a long time, and he doesn't think Peter does either. Stiles thinks about needs, wants, and desires.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up with panic clawing at his throat. His body feels like it's made of lead. He can't move even, can't breathe. He killed everyone. His hands are wet, covered in blood, and he will never be clean.

“Stiles,” a voice curls into his ear. “You're safe. Come back to me.”

Stiles gasps, shaking. His vision wobbles, tunnels, then widens. He can still feel the warm squelch as he ripped the heart right out of his dad's chest. The look of resignation, of forgiveness on his dad's face while Stiles was bathed in a spray of his blood is superimposed over the sight of the bedroom he's in. The night terror gradually fades, leaving Stiles breathing hard, pulse jackrabbiting in his ears in a rush. He's curled on his side, fingers digging into the arm wrapped around him.

“Sweetheart,” Peter murmurs into the nape of his neck. Stiles doesn't know if he's meant to hear that. The word is spoken with compassion; it tugs at Stiles like scratching at a scab.

Stiles realizes he's covered in sweat, not blood. He takes several deep breaths and forces himself to stretch out. His chest aches. “Sorry about the wake-up call.” He reaches out to check the time on his phone. It's barely seven.

Peter moves so Stiles can turn onto his back, then Peter brushes his thumb along Stiles’ temple. He realizes he must have been crying in his sleep. Peter brings his thumb up to his mouth and sucks away the gathered moisture. Stiles wants to point out how fucking creepy that is, but before he opens his mouth he has a stray thought that maybe it wasn't meant to be invasive or intimidating.

“No harm done. After everything you've been through, it would be unthinkable to expect you to escape without any nightmares.”

Stiles sits up and scrubs his hands over his face. His skin feels clammy where the cool air of the air conditioning dries his sweat. “Fuck, I think I need about ten years of therapy. We probably all do.”

Peter hums, sitting up. He combs his fingers through Stiles’ hair, petting him. Apparently, Peter has taken the events of last night as a blanket permission to touch however he sees fit. Stiles doesn't lean into it; he doesn't push Peter away either. “Definitely. But I don't know any who are in the know about the supernatural.” Peter almost sounds apologetic.

“Except for Miss Morrell. But that's not really an option.” He gives Peter a sidelong glance. “I don't think I'd trust any therapist enough to talk to them anyway. Not if they know about werewolves and magic and all that shit. Seems like everyone is always looking for the upper hand.”

“Things are not always so perilous, Stiles. Some day, you won't be fighting for your life every month.” Peter smirks. “Just once or twice a year.”

“Something to look forward to.” Stiles smiles, rolling his eyes. Then he remembers the Desert Wolf and his Jeep. “Shit, I need to call the shop and find out what they're going to charge to fix the window. I need—can you take me home?”

Stiles feels sheepish. He's been asking for help from Peter a lot and it bothers him to need something from the man. Instead of dwelling too much on that, Stiles gets out of bed and pulls on his jeans, refusing to look at Peter who is still lying down like this is a perfectly normal situation to be in. He doesn't wait for Peter to answer, escaping to the bathroom to relieve himself. His blood splattered shirt is wet, wrung out and on a hanger hooked on the side of the shower door. Stiles looks at himself in the mirror; he's going to have to wear Peter's shirt home. He cups his hand under the running water and splashes his face before taking g a swig of Peter's mouthwash and swishing.

Peter is pulling up clean jeans when Stiles opens the bathroom door. He's shirtless and Stiles stares for a long moment. Peter isn't as cut as Derek, but he's still solid, even after the inertia of Eichen House. When he sees the smirk on Peter's lips, Stiles know he's been caught, and he’s pretty sure Peter had delayed changing for this very reason. Stiles scoffs and walks into the living room after he grabs his socks and shoes off the floor.

The ride back home is mostly silent. Peter tries to talk Stiles into getting breakfast with him, but Stiles just wants to go home now, find some distance. He feels raw this morning, like he's so close to giving everything away even when he isn't sure what it is he might surrender. Peter always fucks with people's heads; Stiles should know enough by now not to let him in.  
  


“Shit,” Stiles curses to himself when Peter pulls into the driveway. It's almost eight-thirty so his dad is still home. There's no way it's going to go unnoticed that Stiles got dropped off by Peter.

“This is going to be awkward.” The corner of Peter's lips ticks upward, as if he's relishing the idea of Stiles having to explain this situation.

Stiles groans. “You,” he glares at Peter, “leave. Go scare small children or brood in your apartment, whatever it is you like to do when you're alone.” He unbuckles and gets out of the car.

Peter leans over so he can see Stiles before the door is shut. “Brooding was more Derek's MO than mine.” Stiles ignores the way Peter's gaze runs over him. “See you later.”

Stiles slams the door shut and heads inside to meet his dad.

“Care to explain why Peter Hale is dropping my son off at home at eight in the morning? I thought you were staying with Scott?” His dad has a travel mug of coffee in one hand and his other perched on the holster of his gun as if he can communicate a threat to Peter even when the man isn't in the room.

Stiles brushes past his dad, oozing nonchalance in the hope that he can will his dad to backing off. “I ended up crashing at Peter's place because he's got books on stuff that can help and I was reading.” Technically, he isn't lying, even if the particular time he's referencing wasn't last night. “Sorry I didn't tell you. I really was going to go back to Scott's but I was too tired and fell asleep.”

His dad follows him up the stairs to his bedroom and stands in the doorway as Stiles rummages through his dresser until he finds a clean pair of boxers and a shirt to change into.

“Having Peter around to help out as muscle is one thing, Stiles. If someone has to get hurt, it should be him.” Stiles casts a look at his dad for that, slowing in his search for a mostly clean pair of jeans. His dad shakes his head. “He's on very thin ice with me, son. I don't think you spending anymore time with him than strictly necessary is a good call.”

“Hey, I know he isn't trustworthy. But right now, it's in his best interest to play nice. He's a survivor; he's going to do what he needs to do to get the best outcome from the situation. And that only happens if he behaves. If you're worried about him hurting me or anyone else in the pack, it isn't going to happen. Not now, anyway.” Stiles shakes out a pair of jeans that had been crumpled on the floor.

He clenches his jaw, stomach twisting at his own words and assurance. Everything he's saying, he believes and it makes him uneasy. Stiles can feel the phantom ache in his shoulder from last night when Peter had had him pinned to the counter. He purposely rolls it to make the ache spike enough to be persistent for a moment. Instead of upsetting him, Stiles finds an odd comfort in it.

“You're my son, Stiles. I'm going to worry about you. And Peter? I don't trust him.” Stiles’ dad sighs. “Just, be careful. Keep your wits about you.”

Stiles nods and forces a smile. “I'm trying.” He runs a hand over his hair. “I am going to shower and then try and get some more sleep.”

His dad nods in a _good talk_ kind of way and moves when Stiles comes out of his room. He lets Stiles steal a sip of coffee from his mug in the process.

“Dad, I…” Stiles leans against the wall and shrugs. “Thanks.” He hugs his change of clothes to his chest. “I know this is all insane and I've put you through, like, _a lot_.”

His dad pulls him into a hug and holds him for a long moment in a tight embrace. Stiles can feel his smile along his cheek when his dad tries to lighten the mood. “You're my kid, that's your job.”

“Yeah, gotta keep you on your toes.” Stiles rubs his knuckles over his dad's hair to mess it up as he steps back, recovering from the emotion that had bubbled up inside. He laughs when his dad groans and starts trying to fix his hair.

“Love you!” Stiles calls out as his dad saunters back down the stairs. He waits to go into the bathroom until he hears his dad reply, “love you to, kiddo.

Stiles strips off the clothes he feels like he's been wearing for a week straight and kicks them into a pile on the floor. He really needs to do some more laundry because those were his favorite pair of jeans, and the ones he got off the floor were the least offensively smelling ones he found. When he pulls off the shirt Peter lent him, he holds it in his hands and stares at it. He'll need to give it back, of course. It's weird to think about the fact that this shirt is going to be tumbling in the washer and dryer with Stiles’ other clothes. He idly wonders if it'll smell like Stiles once it's clean, if Peter will be able to pick it out when it's back in his own dresser, by scent alone. What would flash through Peter's mind then?

“You need some actual sleep, Stilinski.” Stiles tosses the shirt to the floor and starts the shower.

Washing his hair feels good after spending the night with it itchy from bits of blood matting it. He watches the water slide down the drain taking stained suds along with it. He’s alive and everyone managed to survive another attack. Stiles turns around and tips his head back under the spray so it cascades down his chest and legs. The warmth seeps into him.

Arousal stirs low in his belly, and Stiles runs a hand over his cock, not quite hard but interested. He hasn't jerked off in three days, hasn't had the energy or desire to do it. But now, now he decides to give into it instead of turning the knob until the water turns too cold to even consider getting an erection.

He widens his stance to give his fingers room to reach down and rub at his balls, tease the base of his cock with the palm of his hand. Soft touches slick from the water that steadily beats down on his shoulders. Stiles keeps his eyes closed, breath getting short once he curls his fingers around himself, stroking slow.

Stiles’ mind supplies him with scene after scene to peak his interest, some from old fantasies, some from lived experiences, some from porn he's watched over the years. It all helps to spur him onward, roll his hips into his fist, and lose himself in the visceral need to climax. It's when his thoughts flip to being held down, Peter's breath and voice rushing over the back of his neck that Stiles has to squeeze his eyes tightly and fight with himself because a spike of want zing's down his spine straight to his balls at the remembered feeling. Does he let the memory morph into fantasy or does he push it away, knowing it will only fuck him up more?

Stiles grips the base of his cock in that moment of indecision. He gasps at the sudden loss, but it only causes him to crave more. Turning towards the wall, Stiles presses his cheek against the cold tile and braces his free arm there. He shouldn't give in probably. He's literally just had a conversation about this, but Stiles doesn’t care right now. He can have this one thing, this thing in his mind that no one needs to know about, that doesn’t hurt anyone else.

Stiles cups his palm around the head of his cock and presses his fingertips just below the corona where he's so sensitive. He revisits last night in his head, being held down with calculated force. The ghost of Peter—someone— _Peter_ behind him, pressing into his back makes Stiles moan weakly. He rocks his hips faster, concentrating his efforts to get off as fast as possible. In his mind, he's being held down and commanded to let go. It isn't his hand wrapped around his cock anymore. It's someone else, someone who wants to take his orgasm from Stiles and wreck him. All he has to do is let it happen, give into the feeling of surrender and let his body do what it wants.

  
Stiles groans loudly and spends himself on the tile, turns his head until his forehead is flat against the shower wall and his breath bounces back, hot in his face, trapped by the humidity. He grinds his forehead forward and refuses to punish himself for finding release from something he doesn't think anyone else would understand. No one has to know.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

Scott’s face is doing that constipated thing where he's clearly trying to find the right words to express whatever it is that is weighing on him. Stiles waits him out because it's kind of hilarious and because he wants to hear whatever it is Scott needs to say. It takes him about a half hour to spit it out while they kill shit on the the TV in Stiles’ bedroom.

“Sneaking away like that wasn't cool, man. We had no idea Malia wasn't home, and that you guys were sitting like ducks out there with no backup.” Scott sighs, looking over at Stiles. “Someone could have gotten seriously hurt or even killed, Stiles.”

“No shit.” Stiles pauses the game so he can stand up and work out some of the agitation gathering in his joints. “It was fucking _insane,_ man. One minute we're just talking and the next this chick is punching out my windshield and trying to pull Malia out of the Jeep!” He shakes his head, thinking back to last night. Seriously, how is this his life.

Scott makes a noise, standing up too. “Kind of my point, dude. If you wouldn't have ditched us, you would have had help or maybe it wouldn't have even happened last night.” His exasperation shows in the tone of his voice, like he can't believe he's having to have this conversation with Stiles.

Annoyance flares up inside from at the accusation that the Desert Wolf attacking might has well have been his fault. “What would you have been able to do? I mean, you and Kira weren’t even paying attention. I literally drove my Jeep down the street and just waited for Malia to sneak out the back. You've got heightened senses. Why didn't you hear us? Jesus, it's like you and Allison all over again, Scott. When you're with your girlfriend, it's like no one else fucking exists!”  Stiles paces around his room, picking up a stress ball he got at the health fair last year. He passes it from hand to hand.

Scott's eyes flash red and it would be frightening or intimidating if Stiles were his beta, but he's known Scott since they were collecting Yu-Gi-Oh cards. He’s seen Scott when he's homicidal on his first full moon; a little anger isn't going to make Stiles flinch. Stiles quietly sighs.

Scott steps into Stiles’ space and snarls, “don't talk about Allison. You—” he bites his words off and takes a deep breath, getting ahold of his anger. His eyes turn brown again. “Fine, so I was a little preoccupied last night. But why did you guys go off like that, anyway?”

Scoffing, Stiles asks, “have you even met Malia? Do you really think she likes the idea of being monitored or having to check-in with people? She wanted some space, Scott!”

He could tell Scott about how Malia wanted to see him in private so she could end things between them, but he doesn’t want to see Scott flip from outraged to sympathetic. Not right now, and not about this. Scott wouldn't really understand anyway. He holds his ground though, staring Scott down.

“I know it's not ideal! None of us want to be doing patrol or sitting around while nothing happens. But it's what we have to do to make sure Malia stays safe! And that's totally undermined when you sneak off like that without even giving me a heads-up.”

“Fine. Fine. Whatever, _thanks for looking out for us, buddy_.” Stiles throws himself back down on the bed, tosses the stress ball into the corner of the room and picks up the controller. “Let's just keep playing.” He's frowning at the TV, leg jiggling.  

Scott narrows his eyes but sits down too. He finally looks over at Stiles with his sad eyes that always manage to tug at Stiles. “I'm just trying to keep everybody safe.”

“Yeah,” Stiles sighs and runs a hand over his face. “I know.”  


It's not long before Scott leaves to go home so he can pick up dinner for his mom. Stiles is relieved when he hears Scott's bike disappear down the road. He hates fighting with Scott, but it seems like they butt heads more and more often.

 

* * *

 

Stiles runs into Kira and her dad at the grocery store later. He's on the cereal aisle, trying to decide if buying Reece's Puffs is worth the risk of his dad finding them and scarfing them down when Stiles isn't looking. They're out of Frosted Mini-Wheats at home, and his dad has been complaining about the Cheerios Stiles guilts him into eating.

“Stiles, hey!” Kira pops up next to him, smiling brightly. “Doing your grocery shopping?”

Stiles raises an eyebrow, because c’mon, but he smiles at her. “Yeah, the fridge is looking a little sparse lately. What's up?”

Mr. Yukimura waves at Stiles and heads towards another aisle. Stiles tosses the Reece's Puffs in the shopping cart before moving down to pick up some Raisin Bran and tossing it in too.

Kira shrugs. “That whole thing with Malia and, ya know...her mom.” She makes a cross between a laugh and a incredulous sound. “I thought we were done with all that stuff, death and whatever.” Kira almost whispers the last few words.

“I wish,” Stiles mutters. He leans on the handle to his shopping cart, walking slowly. “Deaton said the nemeton is basically a beacon to the supernatural. I don't know if things are ever going to really calm down.”

He can't help but think of Peter's taunt _do you think you'll make it to graduation?_ The truth is, Stiles has been functioning under the hope that all of this has an expiration date for them. Once they graduate, they'll be able to get away from this shit. They would be able to move on with their lives, build something for themselves. In the back of his mind though, he's had a nagging knowledge that there will always be too many ties to Beacon Hills for him to leave it all behind once and for all. Even if Scott leaves, Stiles knows he wouldn't be able to follow too, not for forever.

Thinking about Peter's words inevitably makes him think about Peter in general. Stiles’ gut feels hot at the memory of being held down by steady, sure hands. He imagines Peter regaining alpha status somehow. Would he go crazy again or would that confidence settle into action that others could follow? Stiles stares down at his hands where they hang over the handle of his cart.

Kira stays quiet for a few paces then brightens up, forcing a smile. “So what is the county Fair like? I haven't ever been to one, so I've been kind of looking forward to this, ya know?”

Her question brings Stiles out of his head. He looks over at Kira, twisting his wrist to work out tension.

“It's your basic fair: rides, games, cooking competitions, and a petting zoo. I used to go with my mom every year until she got sick. Then Scott and I would go together. I'm pretty good to the milk bottle ring toss.” Stiles reminisces about winning the giant stuffed clownfish Scott had wanted, about how they'd shared custody of it for a few weeks until they forgot all about it.

“I guess we won't really get to go though, huh?” Kira crosses her arms, walking alongside Stiles. Her smile is a little sad. “Saturday is the full moon.”

“But hey,” Stiles finds himself wanting to comfort Kira, reminding himself in the process that he can't let the scary shit rule his whole life. “We'll take care of the Desert Wolf Saturday night, and we can all go to the fair together Sunday. It'll be a big celebration.”

Kira tips her head back, laughing at the shimmy Stiles makes. “Okay, that sounds good. It'll give us a chance to let off some steam. I feel like we haven't really even had much of a break since the deadpool was resolved.

“I've been training with my mom, but it's hard. She was able to take her time and train when she was my age. I've just had to jump into it and hope I don't screw up.” She sighs.

“Baptism of fire.” Stiles blows some air out, turning his cart down the baking aisle. “Sucks.”

“It does.”

Stiles stops, an idea forming in his mind. “Fuck waiting until Sunday. We should do something before then. At this point, we don't know if the Desert Wolf is going to wait until the full moon or not. We might as well have a little fun while we can.” He grabs a four pound bag of sugar. “We can go to the lake.”

Kira looks unsure but willing to be convinced. “I thought Lydia's mom sold the lake house?”

“She did, but we can still go up there. There's a couple public beaches, and we could probably sneak into someone's access if it came down to it. Most of those places are just vacation homes anyway.” Stiles gets excited at the prospect, thinking of all the times he and Scott had gone up there with Scott’s mom.

“Okay! Yeah, let's do it!” Kira lights up. “Look, I should go catch up with my dad, but Scott doesn't have to work Wednesday. I'll talk to him about it, okay?” She squeezes Stiles’ arm. “Thank you.”

“Dude, no problem. It's summer.”

He watches Kira head to the front of the store and smiles softly. They all need this, and he could use the distraction.

 

* * *

 

Sleep evades Stiles. He tosses and turns, but every time he drops off, all he dreams of are horrors. Stiles kicks the covers off, feeling stifled. It's something like three in the morning and he just wants to sleep, to stop dreaming of being chased through a pitch black forest by an army of demons he can't see, can't fight, can only hope to outpace. When he startled awake this time, something had been cutting at him as he ran. Strips of flesh were ripped off him, inch by inch.

Stiles catches his breath and looks over at his door, the sliver of light from the hallway. He isn't in an endless forest; there's nothing chasing him here. He touches his thumb on his right hand to each finger, then repeats the action with his left. Ten fingers total; Stiles is awake, in the driver's seat of his conscious. Relief and frustration fill him.

He rolls onto his back sometime later, too aware of the time and how weary his body is. He feels restless with the need to sleep, to shut his mind off. Stiles rubs at his face, then runs his fingers down his neck as an idea forms. Getting off might relax him enough to have a dreamless sleep. He tugs his shirt up his stomach and scratches at his skin lightly with his short nails. Back and forth, pressing deeper every few strokes.

It feels good, gets his cock interested when Stiles closes his eyes and finally dips his fingers below the elastic of his boxers to scratch further. His breath hitches as the sting of his nails on the overly sensitive skin on his hips and over his pelvis creates a scattered rush of sensation over his entire body before concentrating in his groin. He tucks his other arm under his head for a second, hesitates before he tucks it behind his back instead. The pressure on his arm splinters Stiles’ attention from the way he toys with himself.  He licks his lips, dropping his legs open, and fisting his cock dry.

Avoiding the fantasy that has rapidly evolved in his head is impossible. Stiles gives a weak attempt at imagining some worn in, comfortable scenario, but he discards the effort in favor of the hot spike of _dirty/bad/wrong_ Stiles’ fantasy Peter elicits. Peter has been at the forefront of his thoughts for weeks. Even when he's worried about Malia or the pack, Peter is tied into his thoughts. He can't escape him even in his fantasies now. Here, at least, Stiles gives himself license to imagine what he wants. After that first time in the shower, Stiles finds it easier to succumb to his imaginings. He justifies it, tells himself this is just a means to an end and doesn't affect anything outside his jerk off sessions. He won't think about Peter anymore than necessary. Fantasy is not reality.

_“What do you want?” Stiles had asked._

_“Everything. Everything, Stiles.” Peter nuzzles Stiles’ neck, his goatee catching against the sensitive skin there. It sends a shiver down Stiles’ back and causes him to bare his throat._

_Peter drags his claws across Stiles’ stomach with just enough pressure to leave marks blooming in their wake, white then red. His fingers slide inside Stiles’ underwear, bypassing his cock in favor of clawing carefully at the soft flesh of Stiles’ thighs._

_Stiles hisses, hard and leaking. He arches his back and tilts his hips up in silent supplication. His knees bend without his permission, legs opening up further in invitation. Peter smooths his hand over Stiles’ balls then finally around Stiles’ cock and makes a questioning noise. It's a dark thing that crawls into Stiles’ head, nudging at him to acquiesce._

_“Please,” Stiles presses his back into the bed and stretches his neck further, lengthens his spine, asking in every way he knows how._

_Peter growls,_ “Yes.” _He pushes between Stiles legs with his torso, looming over him like the predator his is. His smile is as sharp as knife._

_Stiles cries out, unable and unwilling to do anything but exactly what Peter wants. His breath rushes in and out of his lungs when Peter yanks his underwear down just enough to free his cock, stroking it too fast, too dry with one hand. He sets a brutal pace. With his other, Peter braces himself over Stiles now, chest to chest. “I want everything.” The words are spoken against Stiles’ skin, too long teeth pressing in._

Stiles comes in his hand, a sweaty mess, eyes clamped shut tightly. He smears the come across his hips before pulling his hand out of his boxers. The circulation to his left arm has been hampered enough that his elbow hurts and he's got pins and needles in his fingers. Stiles rolls onto his side so he can straighten his arm out.

“Fuck my life,” Stiles comments to himself, working his fingers until he has feeling again. _Fuck my life_.

  


* * *

 

A day later, and Stiles is sitting by the lake dressed in an Ironman shirt he's had since he was a freshman and swim trunks, hiding behind the sunglasses Malia picked out for him on a mall trip a couple months ago. The sun hangs low over the horizon just above the treeline, glinting off the water.  Beside him, Lydia is lying on a towel reading on her tablet with that big floppy hat on that shields her from the sun. Music blares from Liam's portable speakers, a mix of pop hits and indie bands. It's been a relaxing day.

Peter, 7:50 PM: _I can't believe I wasn't invited to your beach party. Rude._

Stiles, 7:51 PM: _how tf do you know what I'm doing?_

He narrows his eyes, piqued by the way Peter texted him as if it's normal or wanted, like he has a right. A rush of shame and anxiety runs through him as he has a sudden horrifying thought of Peter finding him out, those things he's imagined in the solitude of his mind. Just as quickly, Stiles stamps it down. There's no way for anyone, let alone Peter, to know what he's been thinking.

Stiles crosses his legs, cradling his phone in both hands for a long moment. Peter has been quiet the past two days, and Stiles hasn't been able to figure out a chill way of saying _thanks for paying for the window_ anyway. Calling the auto shop the other day with dread only to be told the bill had been taken care had thrown Stiles for a loop. It didn't do anything to quell the dark, burgeoning thing inside. He hasn't allowed himself to reach out to Peter, afraid of what he might say or what might happen. It's better if he avoids interacting with him until he has to keep his promise to Peter, and their agreement ends.

Peter, 7:51 PM: _Kira’s and Liam's Instagram accounts are public, Stiles. The location is tagged and everything. Tell Lydia I like her bathing suit._

He can hear Peter in his mind, hear the way he practically leers just to get a rise out of people.

Stiles, 7:53 PM: _fuck you_

His phone goes off with an alert from Instagram, the sound masked by one of Kira's delighted screams. Scott has her over his shoulder, tossing her into the water. Malia cannonballs off the dock. Stiles has a new follow request. It's Peter, because of fucking course it is. He clicks on the icon.

Stiles, 7:54 PM: _what do you even post on your insta?_

Peter, 7:55 PM: _I'll show you mine, if you show me yours._

Stiles, 7:55 PM: _weak_

He accepts the request though, because he is curious despite better judgement. He tells himself this isn't a big deal. Peter reached out to him first, and Stiles can't just completely ignore him right now, not if he wants Peter to cooperate. Besides, Stiles doesn't have anything too embarrassing posted and he's not all that active there anyway. He sends Peter a request that is accepted not even a minute later.

Peter's account has less than twenty posts. The latest one is of a glass of wine next to a Dean Koontz novel with the caption: _A friend suggested it._ Stiles shakes his head and keeps scrolling through. There's a selfie of Peter in half-light that Stiles stares at for a long minute because he can't read the expression on Peter's face, and there is no caption. It’s compelling nonetheless.

Peter, 8:03 PM: _You haven't posted anything in awhile._

Stiles, 8:03 PM: _I'm not on there much. Got more stuff going on than documenting my meals. Haha_

Stiles bends his knees and crosses one arm over them, balancing his other hand there so the camera on his phone centers his face. The sky behind Stiles is darkening and the sunset paints his face with its golden light. Before he can talk himself out of it, Stiles posts the selfie without filter. The caption is simply _wish you were here_. Stiles tucks his face into the crook of his elbow, anxious. He knows what could be easily read into the action, but he doesn't know why he does it anyway. To secure Peter's continued interest, or something else? That and more? Stiles groans at himself.

“Hey, are you alright?” Mason plops down next to Stiles, glistening as water slides down his face. He gives Stiles an encouraging smile before rubbing his head with a towel and continuing. “You haven't even gotten in the water once. Wasn't this, like, your idea?”

Stiles drops his phone between his legs and crosses both arms over his knees, acutely aware of the little notification sounds drifting up towards him. He should save himself and turn the damn thing off.

“Yeah. I thought it would help everyone relax. I mean, we're teenagers for fuck's sake, we should be able to enjoy our summer.”

“Tell that to the nemeton and the Desert Wolf,” Lydia quips, having been listening to Stiles’ and Mason's exchange. Her mouth pulls down in a sardonic smile.

Mason bumps his shoulder against Stiles’. “Wanna help me build the fire? I'm getting kind of hungry. Kira said she brought hangers and hotdogs.”

By the time Mason and Stiles have a small fire going, Liam is complaining about sunburnt shoulders and Malia is making fun of him. Stiles watches them across the flames. Lydia distracts him by poking him with the end of her hanger.

“What's going on with you two?” She pitches her voice low so no one else will be able to easily hear. “You guys have barely said two words to each other the whole time.”

Stiles skewers a hotdog and holds his wire over the fire, scooting closer. “Oh, sorry. Forgot to send out a group text letting everyone know we broke up. Literally right before we almost died.” He grins and it feels sharp.

Lydia just raises her eyebrows and stares at him for a long moment. “You had a lot on your mind.” She chuckles softly, and Stiles relaxes a little.

“Being under an almost constantly threat of death puts things in perspective, I guess. We weren't working out right.” He turns his hotdog over so it'll cook evenly. “I don't think either of us are as upset as you might think, which says a lot itself, right?”

Lydia stays quiet, but she rests her head against Stiles’ shoulder, heating her own hotdog. It feels nice, comforting. Stiles imagines how he would have reacted to this last year, remembers vividly how obsessed he was with her. He hooks his chin over the crown of her head.

“I’m honestly surprised I even had a girlfriend, not so shocked it didn't work out.”

Lydia straightens up so she can tuck her cooked hotdog into a bun and slide the wire out. “You're not hideous, Stiles. You're smart and funny. Dating was going to happen for you at some point. I think the two of you were a good fit for a short while. You helped her soften and she helped you find your confidence. At least it wasn't a terribly public and embarrassing breakup.”

Stiles winces, thinking back to Jackson dumping Lydia so spectacularly before he turned into the kanima. “I guess. But I'm pretty sure the Desert Wolf probably overheard Malia letting me down gently, and there's a certain level of mortification that comes with your would-be murderer hearing you get the 'it isn't working’ speech.”

“Are you really trying to one-up me on the subject of breakups?” Lydia scoffs, amused.

“Hey, losing is what I'm good at. Let me have this one.” Stiles takes a bite of his hotdog.

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself.” Lydia smiles softly. “Hanging out with me totally gives you more social currency. You're not such a loser anymore.”

Stiles laughs hard. “Thanks.”

 

* * *

 

His dad is watching _M.A.S.H_. when he gets home later, drinking root beer from a glass bottle. Stiles dumps his backpack on the floor by the couch and slumps next to his dad, grabbing the remote to flip channels.

“Hey, I was watching that.” His dad complains lazily. He doesn't do anything to take the remote back. “How was the lake?”

Stiles shrugs. “It was okay. We had a bonfire and made s’mores. Total teen movie criteria. And no one even got a little murdered.” He changes channel after channel for the hell of it.

“That's good.” His dad makes an interested noise when the channel lands an episode of _River Monsters_.

The host is talking about big ass catfish that have been responsible for drowning fishermen. Stiles asks, “do you think water kelpies, mermaids, and all those creatures are real? Like, what if there really is a monster in Loch Ness. There are some pretty weird things in the ocean, and if werewolves, kanimas, and kitsune are real, then it's gotta make you wonder, right?”

His dad takes a breath, then sighs. “Stiles, I think I might be at my limit of suspension of disbelief when it comes to all this supernatural stuff.” He looks at Stiles, smiling a little. “How about we just focus on what we know is real, and what we have to actually deal with for now?”

“Suspension of disbelief is a film thing, Dad. This is real life.”

“It feels like a sci-fi horror movie lately.” His dad mumbles. When the show goes to commercial break, he admits, “if Nessie is real, then I'd have to assume Bigfoot is too.”

Stiles shares a grin with his dad.

“So, speaking of supernatural things…” Stiles sits up. He's been mulling this over the past few days. “Turns out I'm a little bit magic.”

“Run that by me again?” His dad takes the remote and mutes the TV. “What do you mean by 'a little bit magic?’”

Stiles reaches towards the bottle of root beer on the coffee table but doesn't actually grab it. He concentrates on pushing his spark outwards, funneling it until he can expand it past his body. The bottle levitates for a few seconds before he sets it back down. The effort barely takes any energy.

His dad stares at the bottle. “What the hell?”

“I mean, you asked.” Stiles chuckles nervously, trying to hide the pride he feels in being able to levitate the bottle without any trouble. “Deaton told me about it way back when, but I never really got a chance to explore it until recently. I've, uh, been practicing.”

“How did Deaton know you can do magic? Is he teaching you? Is this _safe_?” Stiles dad looks a little bug-eyed.

He's definitely _not_ going to tell his dad about blacking out or getting nosebleeds from practicing magic. Instead, he shrugs. “I don't know how Deaton could tell, which is pretty sketchy when you think about it. The guy is helpful, but man is he vague as heck about telling us stuff.” Stiles stares off, lost in his train of thought for a moment.

“ _Stiles_.” His dad sounds exasperated.

“Um, it's fairly safe?” Stiles taps his fingers along the back of the couch. “Knowing some magic is safer than not?”

His dad drops his head backwards and groans. “I'm done. This is too much.” He looks over at Stiles. “So you're a witch? Wizard? What do you call yourself?”

“Huh, I haven't really thought about it. Deaton referred to a spark of magic inside me. Ms. Blake was a druid before she became a darach, and I don't have any aspirations to go down that particular road.” Stiles bites his lip, thinking.

Stiles doesn't know the rules to magic, beyond a vague urgency for “balance” that Deaton and Ms. Morell have talked about in the past. Therefore, he doesn't know if witches or mages or wizards are any different from druids or if any of those things belong strictly in fantasy fiction. Despite not knowing what he probably should identify as, or what his limits are at this point, Stiles knows being able to use magic in some capacity is better than being defenseless. He thinks about how he'd been able to push into Peter's head and cause him physical pain with just a thought.

Fuck it. Stiles will make up his own rules until someone he trusts tells him otherwise. “I’m a mage. Witches are girls and wizards make me think of Harry Potter.”

“So, not a regular human, then.” His dad raises an eyebrow, looking slightly overwhelmed.

Stiles grins, “guess not.”

“Okay.” He unmutes the TV before picking up the bottle of root beer. He holds it out, examining it for a moment before finishing it off. “Go get me another drink.”

Stiles sits up, excited.

“With your whole body, Stiles. No magic.” His dad covers his eyes with one hand. “Just what I need, you breaking bottles of soda on the kitchen floor because you want to see how far your magic range is.”

“You're no fun.” Stiles smirks and gets up to get his dad another root beer.  


Stiles turns his phone back on as he walks up the stairs to his room a little while later. Notification after notification dings and Stiles stomach knots with anticipation. He flips his overhead light on and drops onto the foot of his bed, eyes on his phone screen.

_peterh_official, QueenLydia, and 5 others liked your post_

Peter, 8:05 PM: _pretty_

Peter, 8:21 PM: _Have fun._

Peter, 8:33 PM: _Did you know Isaac has an Instagram account? All his posts are in French. I'm impressed._

Peter, 8:48 PM: _Did you drop your phone in the lake? How embarrassing._

Peter, 9:23 PM: _I may have momentarily taken up one of my nephew's old habits._

That's the last text from Peter. Stiles immediately looks over at his window, but it's closed. Peter isn't lurking in the corners of his room. When Stiles gets up and swings his closet door open, the only thing he finds are clothes hanging up and boxes of junk in the floor. It isn't until he turns back around that he sees the shirt he left at Peter's sitting innocently on his pillow. On top of that is a familiar key now threaded onto a silver chain instead of a string. Stiles sits down and pulls the shirt into his lap. It's washed clean, smells like the shirt he borrowed. Stiles straightens out the chain between his hands and chews on his bottom lip for a moment. He drops it back onto his lap.

Stiles, 11:16 PM: _did you break in while my dad was home?_

Stiles fiddles with the chain while he waits for Peter to respond. It's the same length that the string had been. When Stiles lifts it over his head, the key hangs low on his chest. He looks down at it as he runs the key up and down the chain, chewing on his bottom lip.

Peter, 11:17 PM: _He came back just as I was leaving. Thai food for dinner._

Peter, 11:17 PM: _Good to see you didn't lose your phone in the lake._

Stiles, 11:18 PM: _You're an attention whore. You probably just would have paid for a new one._

He doesn't think that's true, but it's the only way Stiles feels comfortable acknowledging the fact that Peter footed the bill for his Jeep.

Peter, 11:19 PM: _if that's a thank you, it's pretty terrible._

Stiles can't help the chuckle that escapes at Peter's jab, using Stiles’ words against him.  He pictures Peter lounging, looking a little petulant. Despite being amused, Stiles can't shake the hesitance he has to blankly accepting the fact that Peter paid for the repair of his windshield without asking or being asked or even saying anything about it to Stiles first.

Stiles, 11:21 PM: _I would have been able to get the window fixed on my own._

Peter, 11:22 PM: _Consider it a proper thank you for convincing the sadists at Eichen House to back off._

Stiles, 11:22 PM: _What exactly were they doing to you? Where were you before they moved you to the room I was visiting you in?_

Peter, 11:23 PM: _I was with Valack until you started visiting._

That makes Stiles pause, imaging how horrific it might have been for Peter to be trapped in a room twenty-four hours a day with the screwed up doctor and his third eye.

Stiles, 11:23 PM: _shit_

Peter, 11:24 PM: _You see why I am grateful._

Stiles, 11:25 PM: _what's with the key?_

He fiddles with the key some more before tucking it under the collar of his shirt so he'll stop messing with it. The chain feels heavy against his skin even though it's thin.

Peter, 11:26 PM: _If I didn't like the idea of you making yourself comfortable in my place, I could have changed the locks. Keep the key._

Stiles tosses his phone to the bed and flops backwards. “What are you up to, Peter? He asks the room instead of asking Peter himself.

The only thing Stiles has been able to come up with is that Peter is trying to bribe Stiles into leaving Scott. Peter has tried going straight for a kill when it comes to Scott, and it hasn't worked yet. Stiles thinks if he were Peter, he'd try dismantling Scott's pack and thereby stripping Scott of the power he gets from the pack members, making him an easier target. It's a perfect opportunity for Peter, isn't it? Stiles played himself right into the hand by being the one that sought Peter out first.

Stiles, 11:27 PM: _fine. I'm keeping the key. Don't complain when I show up unannounced._

If Peter is going to try getting into his head, Stiles can do the same thing.

Peter, 11:27 PM: _Mi casa es tu casa._

Peter, 11:28 PM: _Do you have any plans for tomorrow morning?_

Stiles smiles to himself.

Stiles, 11:28 PM: _what do you have in mind?_

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

The next morning, Stiles is determined to play along with whatever scheme Peter thinks he's pulling here. If Peter thinks he's going to get under Stiles’ skin, and rip at the seam between Stiles and Scott in order to weaken the true alpha, then Stiles will let Peter assume he's the one holding the scalpel. It's a dangerous tactic, and Stiles knows it leaves himself laid bare for sacrifice. He believes though. He believes he can win this one. So he texts Peter asking him for his coffee order, and he doesn't argue about letting Peter drive.

Stiles draws the key over his head when he gets to Peter's floor; it slides in the lock and turns effortlessly. When he tucks it back under his shirt he's reminded of the text Peter sent him ‘ _If I didn't like the idea of you making yourself comfortable in my place, I could have changed the locks.’_ He wonders what feeling or feelings Peter had been hoping to cultivate in Stiles with that choice of words. Stiles clamps down on the warm swoop of his stomach, reminds himself it's all manipulation. Peter isn't the only one with that skill. When he goes inside, Stiles bypasses the kitchen and heads for the living room.

“I brought sustenance!” He calls towards the bedroom where he assumes Peter must be finishing up getting ready. His eyes trail over to the kitchen and the island that marks the outer edge before he takes out his phone to check in with Scott.

He’s waited until the very last minute to tell Scott where he's going today, who he is going with, thought about not telling him at all. Scott doesn't need to know, and he won't understand what Stiles is doing here. Stiles just hopes that when everything is said and done, that Scott will finally get it—understand that protecting everyone isn't just Scott's responsibility. Stiles will always be there to cover him, support him, even when they fight and disagree, even when Stiles is willing to go further than Scott can willingly accept. After the argument they had earlier this week, Stiles decides it's better to say something rather than nothing. When Scott sends a series of questions marks and exclamation marks, Stiles texts _I'll be fine_.

“Good, I overslept.” Peter emerges. He's threading his belt through its buckle, still barefoot. At least this time his shirt is on. “Feels good to be back in my own bed.”

Stiles asks, “when did you get WiFi?”

Every single time he's been to the loft, Derek hadn't had WiFi and there hadn't been any other networks in rage. This morning, however, his phone placidly tells him a WiFi network is available. He looks up at Peter who has an eyebrow lifted over the coffee he's drinking.

Peter hums and deftly relieves Stiles of his phone to type something. He hands it back. “I thought it was time. Without Derek here, there won't be as many teenagers hanging around to take up my bandwidth.” He rolls his eyes, then gives Stiles a slight smile before heading back into his bedroom.

Stiles grins, teasing, warning. “Except me. You'll never be rid of me now.” He thumbs the side of his phone.

“Hmm, maybe I should rethink.” Peter's voice carries from the bedroom. “Then again, maybe that was my intent: lure you in with WiFi and spell books.” When he emerges again, his eyes are sparkling and his expression is challenging.

Stiles scoffs to hide the caught feeling Peter's words inspire. A flush threatens to bloom up his neck, and he's only able to force it down by will alone.

“I'm onto you now” Stiles keeps his voice light, busying his hands with the paper bag with the muffins he bought with their coffees.

“Good.” Peter is suddenly right there, in Stiles’ space. He tilts his head ever so slightly towards Stiles and takes a long breath. “I like a bit of a challenge.” In Stiles’ stasis, Peter plucks the muffin out of his hand and takes a bite, white teeth contrasting with the dark chocolate.

Stiles’ heartbeat kicks up. Peter’s eyes are dark, intent. He doesn't know what Peter might smell rolling off him, what invisible secrets his own body is telling. Taking a step to the side, Stiles forces distance between them. There's only so far he's going to allow himself to go.

“Are you going to tell me where we're going, or is it still a surprise?” He asks, sarcasm dripping off the tail end of his question.

Peter turns on his heel to face Stiles. “You'll see.”

“Surprise, it is then,” Stiles mumbles, rolling his eyes.

 

* * *

 

“Uh.” Stiles sits up from where he's been slouching the last forty-five minutes. “Dude, this is the place? My _dad_ shops here. I've been here like a million times.”

Peter does indeed turn into the parking lot of a mostly empty strip mall. “You may have shopped here, Stiles, but you haven't seen their private collection.” He is so obviously pleased with himself.

“Oh, right, of course not.” Stiles rolls his eyes. He's thinking back to the last time he was here though, the books he bought.

He hasn't told Peter about that, and he doesn't know if Peter looked at the books he'd brought to the apartment to practice that one time. There hadn't been been any physical way to connect the spell books to the place he purchased it, anyway. This must be some strange coincidence. Stiles mentally shakes himself. It just feels weird to be here with anyone other than his dad.

The shop is just as cluttered and quiet as it was last time Stiles was here. Butterball, the orange and white cat, is resting in a box by the register. Her sister, a medium sized tabby named Fish, cleans a paw next to her. When they approach, Butterball slits her eyes open just enough to see who it is, and Fish stops cleaning and stares imperiously at them. Stiles pets Fish’s head while Peter speaks.

“I have an appointment with Portia.” He informs the little old man sitting behind the counter.

Peter and Stiles are peered at through thick glasses as the man huffs. “She never tells me nothing. Go to the back, then. Knock. If she's here, she'll answer.” He waves over his shoulder with the folded up newspaper he'd been reading.

Fish chirrups and gracefully leaps into the man’s lap. He lets her settle there, and snaps open his newspaper once more, dismissing Peter and Stiles with the gesture.

“Thank you.” Peter smiles and steps away. “This way.” He presses a hand to Stiles’ lower back as if he needs help in following a simple direction.

Stiles ignores the gesture, but doesn't step out of Peter's easy reach.

“The back? There's nothing back here.” Stiles complains quietly so the shopkeeper won't overhear him.

“A little trust,” Peter chides, warm fingers pressing against the thin fabric of Stiles’ shirt.

Stiles snorts and Peter smirks.

There is a door at the back of the store. Stiles swears he's never seen it before, but silently concedes that he might not have paid enough attention all the other times he's been here. When Peter knocks, it opens. A tall woman dressed in yoga pants and a Nike athletic shirt greets them. She ushers them into a small room that Stiles can only assume was originally intended to be meant for storage. Unlike the main part of the shop, this room is empty, save for the glass display counter that takes up nearly the length of the oversized closet they're standing in.

“Peter Hale?” The woman Stiles assumes is named Portia asks. She doesn't bother to wait on the nod Peter gives as she takes her place behind the counter.

Stiles feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up when Portia looks him over. “You must be his associate, then.” It feels like she's staring into the back of Stiles’ skull.

Stiles is stricken silent, words jumbled in his head for a moment, as the spark inside seems to pulse with recognition. This woman has magic, and a lot of it. He has no idea how he knows this, just that it is an undeniable fact.

Peter presses Stiles forward and steps up to the display case. “He is. I assume you have the items we discussed?”

Portia smiles slightly. “Of course.” She leans down to unlock the back of the display case, which Stiles now sees is mostly empty, and pulls out two thick books. She sets them carefully on the glass top.

Stiles takes an involuntary step forward, but stops when Portia taps the corner of the book on top.

“You're the one who bought the books.” She arches a perfectly manicured eyebrow. Suddenly, Stiles feels guilty, like he stole something, even though he has no clue what she is talking about. She sounds annoyed, accusing, but then she clarifies. “The box they were in got misplaced when my father brought in two shipments together. Those were very expensive books, child.”

The spell books.

“Uh…” Very rarely is Stiles speechless, unable to come up with _something_ to say that might get him out of trouble or distract someone. Now, though, he can't find his words. “Sorry? They were in a box with a bunch of random spiritual stuff.”

Portia grins at his words; it is a pleased and secretive kind of thing. Stiles forces himself to relax a little, still not trusting her. He leans back into the comparative safety of the hand he'd forgotten Peter still has pressed against his lower back.

“I suppose I can't fault good fortune, even if it isn't _my_ good fortune. These,” Portia taps the books, “will be much more costly.” Her gaze shifts back to Peter after a weighty moment.

Peter shifts closer, eyes narrowing just a bit. “I understand. _We_ understand.”

Stiles really _doesn't_ understand, but it feels like right now is not the time to ask questions. Definitely not while he is feeling super uncomfortable by the clearly very powerful witch in front of him, who is also a little pissed at him for making a thrifty buy at her expense.

Still, he opens his mouth, because he likes to know things. And this half spoken conversation that seems to revolve around Stiles seems pretty fucking important. The warning bite of Peter's claws into his back causes him to shut up. He wants to scream _I really don't fucking understand what's going on_. Stiles keeps quiet though, aware that something is going on here that he might screw up with the wrong words. At least, that's what he takes the claws against his back to suggest. Stiles moves a little closer to Peter.

Portia purses her mouth as she is back to staring hard at Stiles while ignoring Peter's bulk. “What is your name?” She cocks her head to the side.

Before Stiles can answer, Peter speaks. “I'm sorry to be rude, but we really don't have much time here.” He smiles something that is more promise than apology. “The ring?”

Portia flicks her gaze to Peter, clearly annoyed. She glares at him as she leans down to pull a small blue velvet bag out of the display case. “Of course.”

She slides the drawstrings loose and tips the bag into the palm of her hand. “Nineteen twenties, Germany. Pure silver and amber.” Her voice indicates pride.

Stiles watches as Portia holds the ring up so the light catches its shine. The amber is cut and polished in a rectangle, almost an inch in length. Its band is thick silver, polished to a shine, yet still embodying its age. He is compelled by the beauty of the ring’s simplicity.

“Good, we'll take that and the books.” Peter plucks the ring from Portia's hand and holds it out for Stiles. “Try this on.”

Portia and Peter watch as Stiles hesitates. With the sketchy way this whole situation is going down, Stiles isn't sure he should put the ring on. He can't help but feel as if he's being measured here, when he has no idea what the criteria is. Finally, Stiles slides the ring onto the middle finger of his right hand. It's just slightly too big.

“Here,” Portia takes Stiles’ hand in one of her own. Her hand is dry and baby soft.

Peter flinches forward, teeth bared. “No.”

“I'm not going to hurt him, wolf.” Portia sighs heavily as if Peter is no threat at all. “I'm just going to fix the ring.”

Stiles licks his bottom lip nervously. Peter's fingers are wrapped around his waist now, tight enough to hurt. He watches as Portia covers his hand with her other. The ring feels warm for a moment. When she releases him, Stiles realizes what she did.

“Oh. Cool!” He holds his hand up so he can look at the ring. It fits snugly now, no longer in danger of falling off. Peter relaxes his grip on Stiles.

Portia gives Peter a withering look. “I assume, since your time is so limited, that you're ready to make payment, then?” She pulls out her phone and attaches a card scanner, all business.

“Of course.” Stiles barely notices Peter handing over a black credit card.

He is busy still examining the ring by the time Portia bags up the books. “Wait. I'm keeping this?” He holds his hand up. “It's neat and all, but I'm not really a jewelry kind of guy.”

Stiles doesn't want to give the ring back, and he isn't really able to pinpoint why that is. Something about it calls to him. Despite that, Stiles doesn't like owing anyone, especially Peter. Even if he's supposed to be leading Peter to assume that Stiles is falling into whatever trap he has, Stiles thinks this takes it too far.

“You'll make an exception.” Portia sighs, coming around the counter to herd them towards the closet door. “That ring will help save your energy.”

Stiles wants to ask more questions, the most pressing one being _how_ , but Peter takes him by the elbow. He practically drags him to the exit.

“Hey, watch the merchandise!” Stiles squirms out of Peter's grip, glaring. This whole thing has sufficiently freaked him out. “What the hell is going on?”

Peter pushes Stiles in front of himself as they weave their way to the front of the store, palm warm on his lower back. “Less time spent with an unfamiliar witch, the better.”

“But she knows what you are.” Stiles points over his shoulder, twisting to look backwards.

“Yes, but the Hales have been a well established pack in the area for a long time.” Peter reaches forward to open the door, practically pushing Stiles out ahead of him. “Don't you think it would be irresponsible of her not to keep tabs on the local supernatural population?”

Stiles puts some distance between them, bothered by the way Peter has been manhandling him since the moment they met Portia. He circles to the other side of the car. Before he gets in, he asks, “and she wasn't weirded out that you suddenly recovered from being catatonic for almost seven years?”

Peter rolls his eyes, elbow on the roof of the car. “Stiles, that isn't as odd as you would think.”

Stiles swings his door open and gets inside, mumbling to himself. “Right. What was I thinking.”

When he buckles his seat belt, Stiles remembers the ring he's wearing. Considering its size, he barely notes the heft of it. He tilts his hand in his lap so the amber catches sunlight.

“I don't know about you buying me jewelry, man. Moving a little fast there, aren't we?” He laughs, trying to force the joke. “How much was this thing, anyway? She didn't even tell you a total before she swiped your card.”

Peter blindly grabs Stiles’ hand and tugs to over so he can get a better look at the ring. A little sound escapes the back of his throat before he releases his hold so he can put the car in gear and back out of their parking space. Stiles snatches his hand back too late, skin acutely aware of their brief contact.

“We agreed on a price ahead of time, so there was no use in rehashing. Besides, if you'd been told our purchase cost six hundred dollars, I'm sure we would have had to do some song and dance before you finally accepted and let me pay.” He gives Stiles a knowing look.

Six hundred dollars? Stiles rubs his hands, which are suddenly a little sweaty, over the front of his shorts. “Are you fucking crazy? Why would you spend that kind of money?” All he is imagining is how that amount is like half their house payment.

Chastising, Peter clicks his tongue. “Isn't it interesting how you're so concerned about my finances?” He smiles at the road. “Don't worry, Stiles, I'm not in danger of becoming destitute from buying you a few things.”

Stiles turns in his seat to face Peter a little better. “Yeah, about that though. You know this is weird, right? You paying for my Jeep and then this? What are you supposed to get out of it?” He narrows his eyes, suddenly very uneasy at the possible implications.

“I like to think of it as an investment. You need your Jeep serviceable. Keeping you healthy is important for my own well-being. These things work in my favor.” They come to a traffic light, and Peter tilts his head to stare at Stiles with an unreadable expression.

Stiles swallows and asks, “How is this supposed to help?” When he holds up his hand, indicating the ring again, Stiles can't help admiring it for a second. “She said something about saving my energy, but that's vague as shit. How is a ring supposed to do that?”

“Amber has been used for its healing properties since ancient times. That ring, specifically, will help when you cast. It's a kind of buffer that can dampen the energy cost your spells have. There are some who believe amber can attract good luck, as well.” Peter rattles off the properties of Stiles’ ring, like it should be common knowledge.

“So this is a thing. Like a real magic thing that I can use to work magic.” Stiles settles in his seat.

He folds his hand into a fist to see how it looks with his new acquisition. He likes it more than he'd confess. He's also much more willing to accept the ring now that Peter seems to have decided being honest about his intentions. It's also more difficult to consider giving it up now that the interest his spark shows in the amber has been validated.

Sighing, Peter says, “yes, Stiles. It is a real magic artifact. There will be a section in one of those books on how to utilize it properly.” He stops talking when Stiles suddenly turns in his seat to half lunge into the backseat for the books. “You can read about it later.”

“I can read about it now,” Stiles corrects. “Which book is it?” He's got the bag in his lap now, carefully pulling them out.

They look fairly old and valuable. It takes a lot of restraint to keep from flipping roughly through the pages until he finds what he's looking for. His mom taught him to respect books though. So he licks his bottom lip and slowly, _slowly_ turns the pages of the first book, because Peter is taking too long to answer. Stiles glances over at him.

Peter looks amused. They stare at each other for a moment, and then Peter asks, “how are things between you and Malia?”

Just like that, Stiles is brought back from research mode and right into defense. “Why?”

“Ooh, touchy subject,” Peter delights.

“None of your fucking business,” Stiles corrects, closing the book on his lap. “Where are we going now?”

Peter doesn't drop the subject, but why would Stiles expect him to, really? “I think you made it at least a little of my business when you made out with me the other night. You can't hold it against me, that I'm curious about the state of affairs now. I wonder if you told her, or if she figured it out for herself.”

Stiles gives Peter a look full of loathing. “The fact that you're finding some kind of pleasure out of this is really fucked up.”

“Maybe. What I'm finding pleasure in, however, is not what you're probably thinking. But I'll leave you to your assumptions, since you're so fond of them.” Peter reaches out and runs his fingers through Stiles’ hair, eyes on the road. “Are you sure you don't want to tell me?”

Slapping at the offending gesture, Stiles spits out, “you're a real piece of work. We broke it off before the Desert Wolf attacked, you asshole. I wouldn't do that to anyone I dated. You were just a stand-in; you didn't mean anything, anyway.”

Shit. Stiles shouldn't have said that. The plan was to lead Peter on, get Peter to think he had Stiles’ confidence. If that were the case, then Stiles wouldn't be denying any intent behind Stiles’ misguided sexual overture. He let his emotions and pride get in the way. Stiles waits for Peter to react, but he only continues driving.

The tension in Stiles’ shoulders tightens up the longer they sit in silence. After fifteen minutes, Stiles forces himself to relax his muscles. He's tugged the chain with the key to Peter's apartment out before he even realizes it. Stiles drags it up and down the chain anxiously. He's expecting some scathing retort to his statement, or some insult about his kissing skills. This silence is unusual, frustrating.

They exit the highway and find a parking lot that has access to the beach. Stiles hasn't been to the ocean in almost two years despite living close enough that it's only a few hours away. He doesn't know why they are here, or if they're going to meet some other witch. Maybe Peter is so pissed off with him, he's decided to kill Stiles and be done with it.

“Why are we here?” Stiles asks, unbuckling his seat belt when Peter cuts off the engine. He sets the books on the dashboard.

Peter undoes his own seat belt and turns towards Stiles, blue eyes raking over him for a long, uncomfortable moment. Then he reaches out to run a hand over Stiles’ hair again. He smirks when Stiles flinches, and his fingers grip tightly enough to make Stiles sit up straight.

“Wha—” Stiles tries asking. The pain in his scalp is dull but very present. It has the unfortunate effect of causing him to go a little breathless for the wrong reasons.

Peter leans across the console, getting too close. “Why do you insist on lying, when you know I can tell.” It isn't a question, more of an amused thought. Like Stiles is a mouse that continues to sneak into a house that is laden with traps.

Stiles grips the handle on the door for leverage, pushing as far away from Peter as he can get, which isn't far. He arches his neck to accommodate the tug on his hair. “Fuck you.”

Peter drags his nose up the length of Stiles’ throat. “Your heart will always give you away, sweetheart.” His voice has gone low now.

Stiles closes his eyes tight, shivering at the warm breath caressing his skin. They're parked close to two other cars, and Stiles hopes and fears someone will see, put a stop to it. He can hear his heartbeat pulsing in his ears, just like the ocean crashing on the shore.

Peter traces the delicate folds of Stiles' ear with the tip of his tongue before admonishing him. “I know what you wanted, Stiles. I knew what you wanted then, and I know what you still want.” He twists his fingers in Stiles’ hair and pulls hard enough that tears prick at the corners of Stiles’ eyes. “So stop lying to me, baby boy.”

Stiles feels hot all over, shivery at Peter's words and the too-long presence of him. He knows he should push back, use his magic to wriggle inside Peter's mind and hurt him until he backs off. And part of him is yelling at Stiles to do just that. The rest of his head, though, it's full of static noise that drowns out his fight or flight reflexes. He's caught.

When Peter makes a pleased sound, Stiles lets out an aborted noise, arching his back for a second. Then he relaxes enough so the weight of his body pulls against the grip Peter has on him.

“Stop with the stupid pet names,” Stiles grits the words out despite the overwhelming urge to submit. He attempts to glare, but the effort is weak. “I'm not your sweetheart or your baby boy.”

Peter laughs. “Oh, Stiles.” He sits back and looks over him like he has all the right in the world, casually.

His free hand lands on Stiles’ thigh, causing Stiles to jump. Peter slowly drags it up and up, no where close to where Stiles is half hard. He runs his hand up Stiles’ stomach and sternum, fingers spread wide, possessive. Then he wraps his hand around Stiles’ throat.

“I could shut you up.” Peter helpfully illustrates his ability by cutting off the air supply to Stiles’ lungs for a brief eternity. He sweeps his thumb over the pounding pulse on the side of Stiles’ throat. “But I do love that smart mouth of yours.”

Stiles takes a deep breath when Peter lets go, panic dampening back into static as Peter runs the pad of his thumb over Stiles’ bottom lip. Stiles allows him to dip inside. His tongue rises to taste before Stiles knows what he's doing. He meets Peter's gaze.

Peter is staring intently at him, pupils dilated and irises human blue. When he notices Stiles is looking at him, Peter growls from the back of his throat. He pulls his thumb from Stiles’ mouth replacing it with his own.

The kiss is slow and deep. Stiles strains forward despite himself, and despite the rough hold Peter still his on his hair. Maybe because of both those things. He slides his tongue against Peter's, sucks at it in a dirty slide that is rewarded with sharp teeth tugging at his bottom lip and a hand gripping the inside of his thigh too tightly. Stiles moans and raises a hand to hold the side of Peter's face, to keep him there.

He shouldn't be into this at all. Stiles grasps onto the thin lie that he is only pretending to give Peter what he wants. In truth, Stiles easily melts into kissing Peter, and the way Peter keeps skirting the line between too much pain and just enough to distract his brain. How can he not give into with abandon when it feels as if Peter knows his body better than Stiles, and is willing to help him explore that dark desire. Stiles doesn't want to think about it. He doesn't want to have to have the discussion with himself where he admits he might not be as in control of the situation as he planned, or that he enjoys letting Peter get under his skin as much as he does. He's scared of the consequences.

Peter gentles the kiss and eases his grip on Stiles’ hair until he's cupping the base of his skull instead, Stiles all but whimpers and pushes towards Peter. He backs away, hand removed from Stiles’ leg and placed over the one on his face. Peter nuzzles into Stiles’ palm. It's such an odd scene and change in feeling, that Stiles ends up carding his fingers through Peter's hair, mind blank but for the desire to touch. His hair is softer than it looks, even with product in it. Stiles runs his fingers along Peter's scalp, then down behind his ear and along his hairline.

Peter looks up at him from below his lashes before tilting his head back up and pulling away. “Now,” Peter's voice is gravely, “how do you feel about fish tacos?” He squeezes Stiles’ hand before letting go to sit fully in his seat once more.

Stiles blinks, head spinning at the sudden question that has nothing to do with what just happened. He wants to hold onto at least a semblance of composure, however. “Depends.”

He sits up straight and adjusts his shorts as subtly as possible. He's totally fucked.

“Take your socks and shoes off and we will get lunch.” Peter gives Stiles another once over, hunger in his features that causes a shiver to run up Stiles’ spine even though he isn't even touching him. “There's a taco shack not far from here I want you to try.”

“Okay,” Stiles agrees because he's totally and completely fucked.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to have a visual aid for imagining Stiles' ring, [go here](http://the-redcrate.tumblr.com/post/161589469717/a-mood-board-down-comes-the-night). I included a picture I found on [Etsy](https://www.etsy.com/listing/498232868/mens-ring-amber-silver-art-deco-antique?ga_order=most_relevant&ga_search_type=all&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_search_query=mens%20amber%20ring&ref=sr_gallery_6) (this link takes you to the shop, where I used the price and  
> shipment info to form a story  
> for the ring). 
> 
> Sorry (not sorry) for the UST. <3 I promise we will get there!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major thanks to my bestie, Jenni, for talking head-canon with me, and letting me build on some of her ideas!

 

“These are freaking amazing.” Stiles sucks the juice off his fingers after finishing off the first of his three tacos before they get to one of the weathered picnic tables set up a little ways from the small restaurant. As soon as he has both legs over the bench, Stiles picks up a second taco. The shell cracks along the fold and flaky fish and fresh salsa get everywhere; it's perfect.

Peter has a little judgemental look on his face, but Stiles can see the amusement just around his edges. He smiles, a curl of one corner of his mouth. “I wouldn't lie about food.” Somehow, when Peter bites into his own food, it doesn't look nearly as messy as Stiles knows he looks himself.

“Good to know you have lines.” Stiles snarks around a mouthful of deliciousness. “How did you find this place? It's a little difficult to imagine you chilling on the beach, eating fish tacos and, I don't know, drinking a Corona or some stupid fancy mixed drink.”

“Believe it or not, Stiles, but I did have a fairly normal life before Kate Argent ruined it.” Peter takes another bite, chews, then continues. “I liked to spend as much time at the beach as I could get away with once I was old enough to go off on my own. My father taught me how to surf out here when I was thirteen. I don't think he expected it to fascinate me quite as much as it did.” He briefly smiles.

Stiles is a little surprised at Peter opening up to him about his life before the fire. Mentioning his father has Stiles even more interested because he hasn't heard very much about any of the Hales before Kate tried to wipe them all out. It makes Stiles think of Cora and Derek, suddenly. He hopes they keep any good memories they have of their family close to their heart, where they can remember them when things get bleak. Stiles has his own carefully hoarded memories of his mother and grandmother, of back when his dad was much lighter on the inside.

Stiles clears his throat and takes a sip of the bottled water that came with his food. “You mean you were dumb enough to surf the Red Triangle. What, do limbs grow back for werewolves?” He shudders at the image that pops up in his brain. “Sorry, dude, but there's no way on Earth you could convince me to go out further than knee deep. I watch Shark Week. The ocean is cool and all, but that's their domain, not ours.”

“No, limbs do not regenerate.” Peter rolls his eyes. “I thought you liked a little risk. After all, didn't you run towards the scene of a murder without worrying about where the murderer might be?”

Stiles scoffs quietly. He's never going to live that down. He's never going to stop thinking _‘what-if'_ either.

“Besides,” Peter’s smile turns more friendly, “I only came close to a Great White once. And it barely ventured close enough to check me out, and realize I wasn't something to bother with. I think I must have been about twenty at the time. It was around ten feet long, so not even a full adult yet.” He looks pleased with his story and the way Stiles is looking at him.

Stiles makes a disbelieving noise. “Oh, only a baby ten foot great white shark. That's all. No big deal.” He shakes his head. “No. Nope. Fuck that shit.” He looks down at his paper plate and realizes he ate all his tacos. He pouts a little.

Peter laughs, full-bodied. When he sees Stiles’ mildly alarmed look, he continues to chuckle for a few more seconds and explains, “you are full of surprises. Afraid of sharks. Blood makes you queasy. And yet you barely flinch when facing actual threats to your safety. I do wish you'd said yes, when I asked you to take the bite.”

Coughing when he almost chokes on his water, Stiles shakes his head. “No. That would have been a nightmare. Can you imagine how much trouble I would have gotten myself into if I had all those heightened senses? My dad would have ended up having to arrest me. Besides, crazy alpha? Yeah, no.” He gives Peter a significant look.

Before Peter can defend himself or say something snarky, Stiles chases a thread that's been bugging him for a long time. “What is your plan once you regain your full strength? You already know what will happen if you try going after Scott again, and there's no other alphas currently hanging around for you to kill.”

Peter cleans off his hands, regarding Stiles for a moment. He pushes his plate towards Stiles, silently offering him the last taco. “I should have been the alpha—would have been once Talia died—until Laura was old enough to handle that kind of power. When I was burning alive, surrounded by my pack, my family, I felt the moment my sister died. I felt it, not just because of the pack bond, but because the alpha power poured into me. Having that influx of power was enough to help me find a way out.”

Stiles demolishes the taco, riveted by the impromptu story time.

“You know werewolves have healing powers, and that alphas are stronger in every way. It's because they are the leaders and protectors of their pack; they _need_ that extra strength. After I got out of the house, I laid on the ground in agony as my body tried to heal itself. But I was dying, healing too slowly. When the alpha power left me, I knew it meant two things. It meant at least one of Talia's children survived. It also meant I was going to die. You see, the alpha power, on its own, is always going to search for whoever is best suited to lead a pack.”

“But you didn't die. Not then. Why would the alpha power move to Laura if you weren't actually dying? Your regular healing powers were able to heal you over time. How much faster would you have healed with the alpha power?” Stiles interrupts to ask, taken aback.

Peter's jaw clenches and unclenches twice before Peter takes a deep, cleansing breath. “It's not about what is best for me, for any werewolf as an individual. It took six _years_ for my body to recover from the fire. If I had been the alpha, I would have healed faster, but we're still talking about years here. What good would I have been to my pack, stuck in a coma and unable to make important decisions and protect what was left of my pack? The alpha power passed from me to the next best viable pack member. It's meant to aid in survival in lean seasons and helping the pack thrive during harvest seasons. I, in that moment, was not the best candidate.

“And when Derek had to use his power to save Cora, the Hale alpha power was dismantled. I may have been slightly out of my mind when I overtook Laura and bit Scott, but I only was running on instinct: get revenge on those who dared kill my pack, and rebuild a new pack. I still want that, Stiles. I _will_ bring the Hale pack back into existence, no matter what it takes. I am the alpha.” Peter’s tone is harsh, promising.

It should seem campy to Stiles: here Peter is, echoing the words Derek said to him when he made Isaac submit, saving Stiles from certain death. He isn't laughing though. Stiles looks at Peter's shoulders, his broad and muscled neck, those eyes whose color shifts from light to the deepest blue depending on his mood. Instead of posturing, he sees Peter's words for exactly what they are. It is a promise, to himself and maybe to his deceased pack. Peter will spend the rest of his life looking for a way to become alpha and build a new, powerful pack.

“That...is not all that reassuring for the best friend of the only alpha in town.” Stiles sighs and rubs his hands over his face. When he looks back, Peter is getting up with their trash. He scrambles after Peter. “You know you'll be killed before you can kill Scott, right? You know Kira, Malia, Liam, my dad, Melissa, and I will all do whatever it takes to stop you from killing Scott.” There's a desperation to his tone that Stiles can't quite place.

Peter tosses their trash and recycling away and turns to face Stiles. “I'm well aware of where everyone's loyalty lies. As annoying as I find Scott, I don't need to kill him to become an alpha. He's merely been the most convenient target. There's not anything special about being a true alpha apart from the fact that the power manifests without pack lineage or the need to overpower another alpha.” Peter grins sharp, petty. “There's nothing especially remarkable or special about Scott McCall.”

Stiles feels irritation and relief war within him. Scott is a hell of a lot more than a werewolf, true alpha or not. Stiles was his best friend long before Peter bit Scott and it turned out that, for whatever reason, he could become more than a beta on his own. So, no, Stiles is not cool with Peter carelessly dismissing Scott. It rankles at him, drags over that part of him that will probably always be protective of Scott. However, there is a safety in Peter's dismissal, if he is telling Stiles the truth.

Helping to protect Scott and the rest of his friends had been why Stiles made the decision to visit Peter that first time, why he kept going back to Eichen House even when it triggered anxiety and new nightmares. Stiles wants to believe Peter, and does for the most part, that he isn't going to keep trying to kill Scott. He wants to believe because he knows that if he loses Scott like that, loses someone else he loves to violence and death, that that void inside him will yawn open until every good part of himself is swallowed up. Stiles can see the precipice in his mind on his worst nights. That is Stiles’ biggest, realest fear—that he will lose himself to chaos and evil.  So, yes, Stiles does find some comfort in the idea that Peter doesn't see Scott anymore appealing than he would any alpha who could be used as a means to an end.

“If you're not going after Scott, then who do you have in mind?”

Stiles knows him well enough to know Peter must have a plan. Even if he wants to trust his promise to let Scott live, he knows someone will have to die. And that still doesn't mean Peter wouldn't be willing to take out Scott at a later date, for any other reason.

Peter just smiles. “One thing at a time. First, I take out the Desert Wolf with your help, then I get my alpha powers back.”

They're walking along the beach now. It's windy and overcast, the middle of a Thursday, and there aren't many other people out today. A knot of four or five surfers are bobbing out along the breakers as Stiles watches. One of them catches a wave, gets up on their board, and is wiped out barely twenty seconds later. He thinks about the sharks that are prone to hunting these waters. He looks back at Peter.

“What do you expect to happen once you become alpha? Do you really think Derek and Cora are going to come back here? To follow you?” He feels less incredulous and much more curious than he probably should, considering Peter's past. But Stiles genuinely wonders what it is Peter thinks will happen, what he _wants_ to happen. “Could you even stand to share territory with Scott, as an alpha?”

They stare each other down for long  seconds until Peter asks, “What do you think my next step would be, then?”

Stiles stops walking and plops down on the ground. When he sees Peter sigh heavily at where he's sitting, he says, “hey, it was your bright idea to come out here. I think your car can handle a little sand.”

He crosses his arms over his knees, staring out at the ocean once more. He feels more than watches Peter sit down next to him and stretch his legs out. Stiles glances down at Peter's jeans, the cuffs sandy and a little damp. His feet are bare just likes Stiles’. It's still strange for Stiles to see Peter be so normal. There’s something just slightly more relaxed about the way Peter acts towards him now, even outside the physicality that has inexplicably developed, that wasn't there all those times he was stuck alone with Peter before the deadpool. He holds his hand out in front of him and looks at the amber ring on his finger, then curls his hand into a fist.

“I don't know. I keep thinking back to when you were an alpha and hell bent on revenge and forcing my best friend to join you on a murder spree. Now that you're...relatively sane, I still can't imagine you being some benevolent alpha. That's not who you are.” Stiles rests his head on his arms, cocking it to the side so he can see Peter, see if his hedging has landed anywhere close to the truth. “I think you could be an effective alpha, but that doesn't necessarily mean I think it would be for the best.”

Peter is leaning back on his palms, focused on Stiles. His body language is relaxed but his eyes narrow at Stiles’ words. “That's not what I asked, though, is it? What do you think I would do once I became alpha again?”

“Call Derek and Cora back to you.” He knows Derek would come back; he's sure of it.

Despite his honest dislike of his uncle, killing him to avenge his sister, Derek never truly betrayed Peter. Stiles thinks Derek will never be able to cut him off completely. Derek lost too much in such a short amount of time to willingly choose to ignore the siren call of a familiar alpha, one he's known his whole life. The only way Derek might manage to ignore Peter is if he became alpha in his own right. Cora, Stiles isn't so sure about. But if Derek goes to Peter, she might follow. After he sacrificed his alpha power to save her, Stiles imagines, Cora is likely to feel tied closer to him. Then again, having spent so many formative years away from her family and home pack could have cleaved the need for unity out of her completely. She hadn't exactly been the best team player when she was around.

Stiles’ stomach clenches when he thinks about family. He has his dad and Scott. But he doesn't even have Scott the same way he used to. Scott is still his best friend in name, still holds Stiles’ loyalty and love, but it feels unbalanced these days. They’ve always been as close as either of them could imagine brothers being. “Thick as thieves” his mom used to joke about them. Stiles doesn't think that has been reversed in any tangible way, but it has morphed some.

He knows what he's willing to do in order to keep Scott safe. He’s been told about the lengths Scott went to help save him from the nogitsune. The thing is, Stiles is slowly starting to realize, sometimes being willing to take a bullet for someone isn't always enough. Scott helped save Stiles, but not before the nogitsune used Stiles to kill Alison. They survived that, guilt and anguish from all sides, figurative bullet ripping  through the fabric of their brotherhood. They're limping along now with uneven scar tissue that is numb and hypersensitive in turns. He doesn't know how much more strained it might get between them before it gets better, if their relationship will ever truly mend.

Stiles’ dad is the one person he still has that is always on his side. Even if that had been tested too, back before Stiles had been willing to tell him about werewolves. He thought he'd been protecting his dad, when, in reality, he'd been driving a wedge of distance and dishonesty between them. Once his dad was told, however, that strain started to disappear. The only reason he'd kept the secret so long from his dad was because he'd been hoping to spare him from the danger. But ignorance hadn't protected him from the kanima or from practically losing his job or almost being killed, too many close calls. Stiles will probably always have guilt over withholding the whole story from his dad for so long. Despite the fractured trust between Stiles and his dad, he knows the relationship hasn't changed on a fundamental level the way it has with Scott.

A sudden pang of longing stabs at Stiles. He misses his mom fiercely. He misses his grandparents who he lost just before his mom died. He misses the family he once had. Stiles shakes his head; now is not the time. He can't let his guilt and sadness spiral. He chances a peek at Peter, finding his expression curious and maybe just a little soft. Stiles can only imagine what Peter must smell rolling off him right now.

He clears his throat, focusing on the conversation. “You wouldn't go after Scott. Not right away at least. You'd need to wait for Derek and Cora to come to you. Besides them, you'd need to create a couple more betas. I'm betting you already have an idea of who you'd ask, and how to get them to say yes. It would take some time, though.”

Peter gives no indication if Stiles is right or not, but Stiles feels like he's on the right track. It's one of those gut feelings. After the disaster of his first run as alpha, he's positive Peter will have been planning his next reign with meticulousness.

Stiles folds his legs and straightens up so he can look at Peter squarely. “If you ask again, I won't say yes. I don't want to be a werewolf.”

At this, Peter smirks. “I know. That wasn't always the case, however.” He lets out a silent sigh. “But you're not quite so vulnerable these days, are you? No,” he looks away, towards the ocean. “that has passed for us. You would never submit as my beta.”

Something about the way Peter acquiesces to his declaration, leaves Stiles unsure. He doesn't think Peter is lying about believing him or that he would force the bite on Stiles. There's something else to Peter's words that niggles at him though.

Peter continues, “I do wish you'd said yes. I sometimes almost wish I'd bitten you anyway. You would have been a beautiful and ferocious wolf.” Peter takes a breath. “ _My wolf_.” He looks back at Stiles.

The words hang in the air, heavily, for a moment. Stiles feels his ears heat at the naked, wistful want radiating from Peter. Something inside him quietly leans towards that desire, but he pushes it away. He'd made the right decision then, when he'd said no and stood up to Peter. He truly doesn't want the bite, even if it were Scott asking. He doesn't want to have anyone else in his head ever again with the ability to bend his will and control his body.

When Stiles doesn't say anything, Peter makes a considering noise. “That's what you think I'd do. Gather my nephew and niece, turn a couple more betas, then take out Scott.” He sits up, brushing the sand off his hands.

Stiles shrugs. “You asked.”

“And what about you?” Peter catches Stiles’ wrist, turning it so the inside is facing up, blue and green veins faintly visible. He runs a finger down the tendon, down along Stiles’ palm.

“What _about_ me?” Stiles is proud his voice doesn't break. He needs to snatch his hand back, glances up from where Peter's fingers hold his wrist to Peter's eyes which look almost grey right now. “What will I do? Or what will you do about me?”

Peter’s lips curl and he drags his hand over Stiles’ palm slowly. Neither of these things are overtly erotic or even threatening, but the hair on the back of Stiles’ neck stands on end and lust blooms in him. Peter doesn't say anything, just rests his hand over Stiles’, looking at where they're joined. His palm is sweaty from the heat of the day, not uncomfortable; its weight almost soothing. Stiles slowly pulls his hand away, then rubs it through his hair. He doesn't want to be as affected by Peter as he is.

“We should start heading back to Beacon Hills. I didn't know this was supposed to be an all day thing.” He stands and brushes the sand off his legs and ass, watches as Peter does the same.

He wants to ask Peter about the touching, about that kiss in the car. He doesn't want the answers though, not ready for them just yet. It's easier to imagine each incident as something separate that has no meaning or consequence. If he asks, and Peter tells him, then Stiles would have to make a decision. Stiles flexes the hand Peter was holding, and stops thinking about it.

“It wasn't going to be, and it's only one in the afternoon. Hardly 'all day,’ by anyone's definition.” Peter snarks back, a little irritable.

 

* * *

 

Malia shows up at his window later that day. Stiles sees her first, watches her reach for the sill then hesitate before she goes to knock. When she realizes Stiles is watching, she hauls the window open and slides inside.

Stiles gives a little wave from where he's been standing by his case board, tapping a pen against his chin for the past five minutes. He hasn't gotten anywhere. Most of the board is empty except for a few articles he printed out and a blurry screengrab from a security tape at a casino in Rio. It's depressing, a reminder that they still don't know shit  about this woman hell bent on killing her own daughter. He tried piecing together the attack again. Which direction had she come from? Was she wearing something that might give away _anything_ about her? Nothing.

Now, he tosses the pen to his desk and turns to face Malia. “Hey. What's up?”

It doesn't feel as weird to see her as he expected after breaking up and then fighting for their lives together. It's funny that breaking up would be the stranger of the two acts.

A few different expressions pass over her face before she says, “Lydia told me I should talk to you, that we should talk, if we don't want things to get bad. I don't really know.” It's obvious that she doesn't understand why Lydia gave her the advice, but she's willing to try after all the other times Lydia was right.

A thought occurs to him then, thinking about Lydia and Malia hanging out. The Desert Wolf is somewhere in the vicinity, and had been stalking Malia. They should be looking for where she's staying. Find out so they can make a plan and ambush her. Malia ought to be able to scent her mother now that they've had an encounter, but that's a lot of ground to cover. It would be difficult, but if it worked…

He doesn't know why they hadn't thought of it sooner.

“Oh. Uh, that's probably a good idea.” He pulls his desk chair over and sits down. “I was thinking, we should try and canvas the likely places the Desert Wolf might be staying. You'll need to lead it though because you're the only one who can scent her.”

Malia crosses her arms and nods. “I know. That's what I was doing today. I took Scott with me.” When Stiles opens his mouth to ask why no one told him, she sighs. “We didn't find anything. I didn't even smell her anywhere in the parking lot where she attacked us.”

Stiles jumps out of his chair and starts pacing. “But you know what she smells like, right? She had a scent during the fight? Maybe she's using something to cover her tracks now. She doesn't want to be found, obviously. Did you talk to Deaton?”

Malia keeps her eyes on Stiles as he moves back and forth along the length of his bed. “We didn't get anything useful. There are too many ways she could be muting her scent. Trying to figure which one would waste time we don't have, if she's going to attack on the full moon.”

Biting at his thumb, Stiles mumbles, “we should have been looking since it happened. A day or two is long enough to find a lead.” He lets out a short frustrated noise.

Malia is quiet long enough for Stiles to register it and check to see what she's doing. She is looking at him with a soft expression that smooths out as she says, “You really are going to do everything you can to help, aren't you?”

“Well, yeah.” Stiles moves closer and places his hands on her shoulders. “I told you I would. I love you, Malia. It might not be the way we thought it would or should be, but this—” he squeezes his fingers, “—I’m not going to stop caring for you and trying whatever I can to keep you safe just because we broke up. I thought you knew that?”

Malia's smile is brittle. “No, I do. Knowing is different than experiencing. I don't know what a family or a pack is supposed to be like. I've been looking after myself for what feels like longer than I really had anyone that loved me and was supposed to protect me.” She shakes her head and pulls Stiles into a hug. “Thank you. Thanks for trying, for everything.”

Stiles wraps his arms around her and holds on tight, face pressed against her hair. She feels exactly the same. Now, though, he doesn't have guilt coloring the moment. He doesn't have to worry about not being who she needs him to be, who he'd like to be. He doesn't feel weighed down with the knowledge that she isn't who he wanted her to be either, what mold he expected her to fit into. Stiles just hugs her and enjoys it for what it is.

“You don't have to thank me.”

After several long moments, Malia clears her throat. “Uh, Stiles?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, tightening his arms around her briefly.

“You smell like Peter. Like, _a lot_.” She steps away, nose wrinkled.

Stiles scratches behind his ear, “um, right. About that…” He doesn't know what to say to her. It's confusing and with Malia standing right there, it's awkward too. “So I kind of spent the morning with him looking at magical books?”

Malia sits down on Stiles’ bed. She still looks a little repulsed. “He had to scent you for that?”

He should have taken a shower.

“No? It just happened.” Stiles voice is strained, uncomfortable with having the issue forced. At least she can't smell stale lust on him. If she can, he's thankful she isn't asking about that too. He turns the ring on his finger, remembering it, and leaves it so the amber is facing the wrong way, less conspicuous.

Malia rolls her eyes, apparently willing to let it drop now. “Whatever. I don't want to talk about Peter. I don't know what I'm supposed to talk to you about at all. Lydia didn't tell me.” She huffs.

“Do you wanna go with me to see Dad? Maybe he has some ideas on where the Desert Wolf could be.”

It's worth a shot. He called to let him know when he got home, but it would be nice to check on him too. If he can get his dad or Parrish to help come up with good places to look, all the better.

“Sure.” Malia gets up and waits for Stiles to grab his keys and phone.

On the way down the stairs, Stiles texts Peter.

Stiles, 4:09 PM: _Malia can smell you on me. So thanks for that awkwardness._

Peter, 4:11 PM: _‘Sorry, not sorry’ as the kids say. :*_

Stiles scoffs when he checks his phone at a traffic light and sees Peter actually sent him an emoji.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a pretty heavy chapter, with arguments and emotional conflict. Consider yourself warned.
> 
> As usual, my undying love and gratitude to Jenni. Twisted_mind & SlasherFiend also lended a helpful ear, as well as some advice. Thank you! <3

 

Parrish is on a call when Stiles brings Malia into the bull pen. He nods hello to them and glances towards the sheriff’s office. Stiles heads through the door after giving him a wave.

His dad stops sifting through a stack of files when he hears them come in. “Hey, I wasn't expecting to see you until later.” He smiles with something that looks like relief.

Stiles flops into one of the two chairs across from his dad's desk and says, “yeah, but we had an idea to run by you,” while Malia sits next to him. “Malia and Scott spent the morning trying to find the Desert Wolf's scent to see if they could find where she's staying.”

Malia jumps in, adding, “I couldn't find her anywhere though. Deaton said she might be using something to cover her scent.” The frustration she feels is almost palpable.

“Exactly.” Stiles nods, frowning a little. “That’s where you come in. We were hoping you could help us come up with a better way to triangulate her location. Like abandoned buildings or odd murders or something? You know, any animal maulings.” Stiles smirks at his own joke.

“There has actually been a decrease in murders here lately. Things are almost back down to where they were before everyone and their brotherhood turned into something supernatural.” He makes a face and turns to the computer, searching for something. “The only odd one we have had recently, was an elderly man who was stabbed on his front steps. Nothing was stolen off him, that we are aware of, nor was his house broken into. There aren't any leads.”

Scanning the screen, he says, “ I can print out a list of condemned structures and county owned properties, but that's as close as I can get to a list of abandoned buildings.

“But guys, I don't like the idea of you going out there, like this. She is a trained assassin, and she's specifically after you.” When he looks at Malia, his eyes are concerned. “I wish you'd let me put a detail on you. My guys might not all be aware of what's going on, but their presence alone should be enough to get this woman to consider backing off. At least let Parrish come with you.”

“No, Sheriff. I'd only end up getting someone else killed if you did that. She wouldn't hesitate; she doesn't care who stands in the way.” She holds his stare until he gives up. When Malia has her mind made up, there isn't anything anyone can do to change it.

The printer whirs to life and Stiles’ dad relents. “Fine. I'm printing these off for you, because I know if I don't, you would just go behind my back and get them anyway.” He gives him a significant look to which Stiles shrugs only slightly unapologetic.

When the papers finish printing, he swivels around to grab the thin stack, and hands them over. Stiles goes to take them, but his dad holds on. “You guys need to be careful. I can go with you, if you'll wait until my shift is over.”

That's the last thing Stiles wants. His dad needs to go home, eat dinner, relax, then go to bed. Stiles wants him to be as far away from this mess as possible. When the time comes, he has absolutely no plans on bringing his dad in on the fight with the Desert Wolf. He can't risk him getting hurt, or worse.

“I'm just going to do some cross-referencing. We probably won't even figure out what the viable options are until tomorrow.” Stiles placates his dad, tugging the papers free from his hand. “We'll be fine.”

His dad sighs heavily, reclining back in his seat once Stiles has the printouts. He regards the two of them. Stiles decides now is a good time to leave, right after he's gotten the help they need, but before his dad has a chance to try reasoning with them anymore. He taps on Malia's shoulder so she stands too.

“Wait,” his dad sits back up. “I want to know what happened with Peter.”

Ugh. Stiles glances at Malia, wishing she wasn't here for this. “Nothing much.” He rolls the papers. “We can talk about it later, Dad. I know you've got a lot to do.” He uses the rolled papers to point at his dad's desk.

Shaking his head, his dad says, “See you say that, but for some reason I don't think we'll ever find a time to talk about it 'later.’ You're a little too good at redirection. What did you two do that required being gone for several hours with this guy?”

Stiles keeps backing away slowly so he'll be able to slip out easier, once again wishing Malia wasn't here for this particular conversation. “He found a couple things to help me with my magic stuff. We got lunch after and I came back home.” That's it. That's exactly what happened. He wills his dad to accept and move on.

Instead, his dad frowns. Stiles is about to step out of the office, but his dad speaks before he has a chance.

“He could have told you about these things and I could have gotten them for you. I don't like this, Stiles. I don't trust him. I thought you didn't trust him either.”

Stiles grabs his hair out of frustration and tugs once before letting go. They've already _had_ this conversation. “I don't have the connections he has, Dad. These people we met up with—they wouldn't have talked to me or you. I don't see what the big deal is.”

His dad shakes his head. “Look, I know he's a necessary evil at times. But that doesn't mean I'm okay with my son traipsing around with him. And if these people aren't willing to meet up with us, then how do you know you can trust them? How do you know you are safe with Peter?”

Stiles wants to yell and tell him to shut up. But he isn't a little kid anymore; he can't throw a tantrum to try and get his way.

Instead, he says, “I know I shouldn't—can’t—trust him. But he hasn't done anything to indicate he wants to hurt me. These days, that's about as much as I can hope for from most people. Everything was fine. Nothing weird happened. No one got hurt. I'm _fine_.”

Malia makes a noise but clears her throat and looks away when Stiles and his dad both look at her.

Stiles’ dad runs a hand over his face. “I know that, son. I'm just trying to make sure you're being smart. And I'm trying to get you to stay safe, stop putting yourself in danger.”

Before he can stop himself, Stiles mutters,"yeah, that means a whole lot coming from you.”

“This is my _job_. I do this to keep others safe. And I do it within the confines of the law.” His dad's face is turning red, angry. The words snap across the distance separating them. “You are not an officer. You aren't even out of high school yet. It is not your job to put your life on the line!”

“It is when no one else can or will do it! It is when the people getting hurt are my friends or you, dad! This? None of this falls within anything the law governs! None of it!” Stiles yells, taking a step further back into the office. “So if I can figure out a way to help, I'm going to do it. If I can get someone to help me find a safer way to do that, I will. And Peter is helping. He's actually contributing to keeping me safe, by giving me these things. I can use my magic to save lives, dad.”

He watches as several emotions flicker over his dad's face until he purses his lips before saying, “I'm your father. I'm going to have reservations. But if you aren't going to listen, I can't do anything about that.” It sounds so final, like he's washing his hands of it. Stiles feels like he's being submerged in freezing water all over again.  

His dad sit down heavily and moves the stack of files he'd been looking over earlier back in front of him. Without looking up, he says, “I'll see you later tonight. Go home. Look those papers over. Let me know if we need to check anything out.” The words are clipped.

Stiles stares at him for a good five or ten seconds. “Okay.” He's almost out the door when he hesitates, tapping a few fingers along the framing.

He looks over his shoulder, asking, “Were you serious about Parrish? When he's working, or just off the clock?”

His dad gives him an unreadable look. Stiles hopes his questions are enough to thaw the barrier that's suddenly sprung up between them. If letting Parrish tag along will make his dad feel better, then Stiles is willing to give it a shot. Neither he nor Malia want to get anyone else involved, but Parrish, at least, knows what's actually going on. At least, as much as any of them know at any given moment. Parrish doesn't have any family either. If he got hurt...well. Stiles doesn't think about that.

Finally, his dad looks past him and yells for Parrish.

“Yes, sir?” Parrish comes over to stand by Stiles so he can stick his head in.

“I need you to accompany my son and Ms. Tate, here, with some business about attempted murder.” His eyebrows climb up his forehead in an almost comical attempt to convey his hidden message.

Parrish looks between all three of them. “Sir, is this,” his voice goes quieter, “about the deadpool? Is someone else still trying to make hits?”

“Uh, no. Not quite.” The sheriff waves Parrish inside. Looking at Stiles, he says, “you go ahead and do your research. Parrish will be in touch.”

Stiles nods and Malia gives a tight smile that doesn't reach her eyes. She sighs slowly, irritated, and they walk through the bullpen and back out into the parking lot.

“Sorry about that.” He tries apologizing, both for her witnessing an argument and for taking his dad up on his offer when she was obviously against it.

“Okay.” She shrugs, still frowning a little as she opens the passenger side door of the Jeep and gets in. “If he gets killed, that's on you. Not me.” She sends him a poisonous look, but it melts away into something introspective. “This is a total shitshow.”

Stiles cranks the Jeep up, but leaves it in park. “Parrish can help. He's competent, and he is pretty smart. Look, I know you're worried about, you know, getting killed. And I know the idea of all of us working to help keep you safe bugs you, but that's what pack does. It's what family and friends do. We look out for each other.” He turns to face her, trying to sound as sure as he wants to be about this. “We are going to get her before she gets you or anyone else. I'm not going to let anything happen to you.”

Malia studies him for a second. “I hope so.” She slumps in her seat, then asks, “Magic?”

Of course she is gonna ask about that. “A long time ago, Deaton told me I have a spark of magic inside. And I did this thing with mountain ash. It was pretty cool, but, like that was it for a long time, because Deaton was busy and then all the...death and destruction.” Stiles shakes his head, getting back on track. “I started looking up stuff on my own, and practicing. That only happened recently. It's...I don't know really, but I think it will help. Better than just having a baseball bat.” He snorts.

Malia asks, “Your dad knows about the magic now?”

That catches Stiles off guard. He cocks his head. “Yeah? Wait, why does it sound like this isn't news to you?”

Malia shrugs. “Because it isn't. I didn't know for sure it was magic, but you smelled weird sometimes. Or, weirder? Like, in general, you don't smell like a regular human. But lately, you've smelled stronger. It must be the magic.”

All of this, Malia figuring out he is doing magic and the fact that he apparently smells different than everyone else, is blowing his mind. It's the last thing he expected to hear from her. Still, it is a relief that he doesn't need to explain everything to her.

“So wait, back up, I smell different? Like, all the time? What the hell?” Stiles grips the steering wheel tightly. “Does everyone else know about this? Can they smell that too?”

“I don't know. It took me a while to figure it out, and then I just thought that was all you, ya know?” Malia props her foot up in the dashboard. “No one has said anything to me about it. Maybe they can't smell it. It's pretty subtle most of the time.”

“Okay, feet off the dash. C'mon, we talked about this.” He brushes her leg, wry grin on his face. He feels a little relieved by her words. “But good. Good. I don't like the idea of people being able to tell that sort of thing.”

Malia rolls her eyes. “Don't worry about it. I have a better sense of smell than just about everyone. But your dad knows, and Peter, too.” She sounds frustrated and it makes Stiles feel guilty all the sudden.

“Hey, I was planning to tell you, you know? I just…” He shrugs, and bites anxiously at his thumb nail. “The only reason Peter knows is because I got sloppy, and he figured it out. And I told dad because I'm trying this new thing where I'm mostly honest with him.”

“Okay. I guess that makes sense. I assumed you hadn't said anything to me about it for a reason.” Malia gets quiet.

Stiles knows he's fucked up by not talking to her about this. “I’m sorry. Malia. I should have told you. I know that.” He sighs and puts the car into drive.

Stiles fiddles with the ring on his finger while he drives, rubbing his thumb along the silver. “Peter paid for this ring. It’s amber. The witch we got it from and the books she sold us say it’s good for healing and balance. There's some vague shit about straining my magic through it so I don't faint or some shit. I don't know.”  

Malia grabs his hand so she can look at the ring. She whistles. “That's something, all right.” She lets go so Still can make a left turn. He catches sight of her half-smile.

Stiles clenches his fist then relaxes it, hooking his thumb around the steering wheel. “Yeah.”

Malia laughs one short bark. “Magic. Okay.”

Stiles smiles despite himself. Maybe things will be okay.

 

* * *

 

A little later, they go to Scott's, arriving just before Lydia pulls up with Parrish. Malia hangs back to wait on them. After he waves, Stiles goes inside, finding Liam and Mason already there finishing off several boxes of Chinese takeout. Kira comes out of the kitchen with some soda. Scott is slurping down lo mein with a fork, and he gives Stiles a silly grin, all gross and greasy. Stiles picks up a fortune cookie and tosses it at his head before plopping down in the lumpy armchair.

Malia Lydia, and Parrish step inside, talking quietly. Stiles exchanges a look with Malia, who perches on the arm of Stiles’ chair while Scott wipes his face clean. Lydia stands next to Stiles and Malia, where she can see everyone. Parrish stands just behind her shoulder.

Before Scott has a chance to say anything, Stiles asks, “where is Peter?” He hadn't seen the older werewolf when he was looking around. Besides, if he were here, then Stiles imagines Peter wouldn't hesitate to make his presence known.

Scott looks confused. “I don't know?”

Lydia speaks up, “wasn't he released so he could help us with this?” She sounds bored, but Stiles is grateful for her willingness to support him. He doesn't expect her to be okay with Peter, but at least she is willing to put up with him when he's useful.

“I didn't make that bargain.” Scott frowns. “This is pack business, and Peter is not pack. Now,” he sits forward on the couch facing Stiles, “did your dad find anything to help with the search?”

Stiles shakes his head. “I know he isn't pack, but he can help us, Scott.” He throws a hand out towards Parrish. “He's not pack either. But he's here, because we need him. And we need Peter.” Stiles works his jaw while he tugs his phone out of his pocket to shoot off a text to Peter.

“Hey, no. Don't tell him to come here. I don't want him here.” Scott tries infusing his voice with command, but it falls flat on Stiles.

All it manages to do is piss him off. He looks up from his phone. “Oh, I'm sorry. Do you have any experience with werecoyotes? Did you grow up as a werewolf? No? So maybe we should have the guy who is both those things here to help. We are flying blind here.”

Scott glares and stands up. “Dude, you need to chill out. I don't know why you're suddenly so pro-Peter, but I'm not. He can help us during a fight, but I'm not inviting him into my pack meetings. It's bad enough that you're going off with him without even telling me _why_.

“Malia and I spent the whole morning looking for where the Desert Wolf could be. Where were you? You were with Peter Hale, the guy who turned me into a werewolf and killed like a ton of people.”

By the time Scott is done, Stiles is on his feet. He walks around the coffee table to stand in front of Scott.

“I am not going to ask permission to do what I want or what I think needs to be done. Scott, I'm not a werewolf and you're not my alpha.”

The moment the words are out of his mouth, he feels vindicated and guilty in equal parts. It feels good to tell Scott exactly how he feels, but Stiles knows he'll regret it at least in some part later. Already, seeing the bewildered expression on Scott's face turn into something hurt has Stiles feeling deflated inside. Externally, he stands his ground, despite the anguish at knowing this argument is just one more rip into their already fragile friendship. But he has to do this, because Scott doesn't understand. He doesn't see why Stiles will never allow himself to be anything less than an equal.

“I’m your best friend. I...you…” Scott shakes his head, then his expression turns hard. “This is Peter. He's gotten in your head and he's trying to drive us apart. Stiles, you can't be around him anymore. He's poisoning you and trying to ruin everything!”

Stiles can't help it, he scoffs. “He doesn't have to do anything, though, Scott. That's the problem! This?” He waves between the two of them, then around at the rest of the pack where everyone is looking uncomfortable and concerned. “This was already a disaster before Peter got out. Our system is broken. You are the alpha werewolf, I get that. But most of us? We aren't werewolves. We don't have that connection to you the same way Liam does or Isaac did. You can't just yell at me and expect me to fall in line, Scott.”

“What are you talking about? This is crazy.” Scott huffs, moving closer to put his hands on Stiles’ shoulders. “Stiles, come on, dude. Don't fight me on this. We are on the same side.”

They are, but that isn't enough.

“Get your hands off me.” Stiles demands quietly, glaring at the floor. Scott is refusing to listen to him like so many other times.

“What?” Scott looks legitimately confused. He tries catching Stiles’ eye. “Stiles.” His voice cracks.

“Get your hands _off_ me.” He looks up at Scott, watches his gaze turn to stone, affronted.

“Dude, chill the fuck out.” Scott frowns and starts to back off. But it's too late.

The anger and frustration builds up inside. He doesn't even consciously think it before he's fisting his hands and _pushing_. Except it isn't his hands shoving Scott back, it's air and magic slamming Scott back so hard his weight almost topples the couch over even with Liam and Mason sitting in it. Stiles blinks, breath coming quickly, amazed.

Someone mutters, “holy shit.” But Stiles doesn't pay attention to them. He’s staring at Scott still who is rubbing at the back of his head and trying to get to his feet.

“What the hell?” Scott yells, pissed off and not understanding how Stiles was able to do that.

Stiles scoffs. “Guess the cat is out of the bag. I'm magic.” He does some jazz hands, grin a mean, ugly thing in the shadow of his anger.

“You can't do shit like that! Stiles, it's not safe. You can't just mess around with magic. Look what you just did! I could have gotten hurt, or someone else could have!” Scott’s face is red, eyes matching, blazing. “What, even, is this? I feel like I can't trust you anymore!”

Silence rings through the room for too long. Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles sees Lydia make a move like she's going to try getting between them.

“You know what? If you feel that way,maybe I shouldn't be here either.” He pulls the rolled up printouts from his back pocket and slaps them onto the coffee table. “There. That's the stuff Dad gave me. I'm sure Parrish can help you with the rest tonight.”

He turns towards Malia while Scott splutters. To her, he says, “I'm still going to do whatever I can to keep you safe. But, I can't be here right now.” He waits long enough to see her nod her head, then he leaves.

 

* * *

 

Peter is in the kitchen when Stiles opens the door. He's greeted by Peter looking over his shoulder and saying, “I see you don't believe in knocking.”

Stiles tucks the key back under his collar. “You have super hearing and implied I should make myself at home. You have no one to blame but yourself.” He goes over to where Peter is adding shredded cheese to a pot on the stove. “What are you making?” It smells delicious.

“Alfredo.” He snags Stiles’ hand when he gets close enough, tugging him until their arms brush. “Did you eat with your little Scooby gang?”

Glancing down at where Peter is holding his hand, Stiles answers, “Are you going to feed me if I say no?” He ignores the dig at Scott's pack.

Peter smiles, stirring the pot carefully. “No. You'll just have to watch me eat.” He squeezes Stiles’ hand and tips his head towards him. “Do you wish to join me?”

That's the question, isn't it. Speaking in broad terms, anyway.

Stiles takes a breath, then twists his hand so his fingers slot against Peter’s. He watches Peter pointedly look back to the stove where he's still stirring the sauce. “Sure.”

They stand there while Peter stirs. Eventually, Peter taps the spoon on the edge of the pot, replaces the lid, and turns down the burner. He squeezes Stiles’ hand once before letting go.

“The water will take a while to boil, and then I'll cook the noodles while the sauce simmers.”

Peter describes his actions, filling a second pot with water from the sink and setting it on a burner. When he's finished, he turns around and leans against the counter across from Stiles.

“What happened?”

Stiles wrinkles his nose. “Nothing.”

Peter, predictably, rolls his eyes at Stiles’ blatant lie. “Then I suppose the ozone I smell, the anger, and the sadness are all figments of my imagination.”

Stiles tries to smile. “Maybe you have a brain tumor. I heard that fucks with your sense of smell sometimes.” Peter just gives him a look. Stiles groans and covers his face. “I had a fight with Scott.”

Saying it, those six words, makes Stiles feel small and stupid. It was more than a fight, but he doesn't know how to explain it and he doesn't even know if he wants to. He lets out a breath and stares at the ceiling for a moment, trying to figure out what it is he does want.

“Hmm,” Peter hums. “That can't have been fun for you.”

Stiles looks back at him, looking for any sign of pleasure and finding none. He doesn't know if Peter is just hiding it, or if he really doesn't find the prospect of Stiles and Scott fighting satisfying. Right now, Stiles decides to believe Peter isn't cheering on the inside. He doesn't think he could handle being disappointed by anyone else today.

“Nope. I may have used my magic on him.” Stiles blushes, prideful despite the situation.

That gets a raised eyebrow from Peter. “Really? What brought this on?”

“He wouldn't let go of me.” He shrugs and looks away.

Peter frowns for a moment, resettles against the counter. “Did you get in his head, like you did with me?”

“Uh, no. I like, force pushed him away. Hard.” Stiles can't stop the little smile that blooms on his lips. Objectively, it was pretty badass, even if he's not sure he could recreate it on demand. He sobers and admits, “I didn't mean to do it.”

The image of Scott's disbelief and look of betrayal flashes across Stiles’ mind.

Peter’s mouth twitches, but it's not quite a smile. When he speaks, his voice is even. “Okay.” He pushes off the counter and crosses to Stiles. “Are you alright?”

Stiles gets the feeling that Peter wants to touch him, but is restraining himself instead. Or maybe that's just something Stiles is imagining.

“I guess. I didn't actually hurt him.” He shrugs. “Maybe the couch.”

Peter takes a breath. “Do you want to discuss it?” He sounds uncertain, whether about Stiles’ willingness to take him up on the offer or his own distaste in covering friendship drama, Stiles isn't sure.

He doesn't want to talk about it at any rate. He needs to process it when his emotions aren't so high. Stiles really shouldn't have come here in the first place. Not so much because Peter is vaguely threatening to him as a whole, but more because he can't trust himself around Peter. Not when they're alone, and certainly not when he's emotionally unstable.

Stiles takes in Peter who is standing close enough that he'd barely have to reach out to touch him. He's in jogging pants and a black tank top. His hair is still styled from earlier today, but it looks softer, like some of the product has evaporated. Peter's hair is growing out from the trim Stiles gave him at Eichen. His shoulders and neck are thick with muscle, no longer so gaunt as before. He looks...Peter looks like exactly what Stiles wants and shouldn't desire.

“No.” Stiles places his hands on the edge of the counter he's leaning against, consciously relaxes his body. “No. I don't want to talk about it.”

He watches Peter's eyes wander up and down his body. When he's looking up again. Peter leans over Stiles, reaching for the cabinet above his shoulder. Their chests brush, then he's pulling down a box of noodles.

Stiles turns his head just enough that his mouth almost touches Peter's cheek. “Thanks,” he whispers.

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

 

He feels like he's behind the scenes, watching Peter stir homemade alfredo sauce and boil noodles, slice open a long loaf of crusty bread and spread herbed butter across the soft insides. Thinking back, before recently, Stiles had never been around to share a meal with Derek or Peter. He'd never cared about it, never offered an invitation to even Derek for dinner with his dad. Not that that wouldn't have been an interesting night, to be sure. Tonight, this will be the second time in a _day_ he's eaten with Peter. And here the man is, cooking for Stiles as if it's completely normal.

Peter shakes the strainer of al dente noodles in the sink to get rid of the last of the water. He's completely at ease under the scrutiny of Stiles’ sharp gaze.

“I can't believe you cook. This, somehow, did not occur to me.” Stiles crosses his arms.

Peter lifts a brow. “Did you imagine I lived off pizza and takeout? Of course I can cook.”

“I didn't imagine it.” Stiles admits. “But there's a difference between opening some cans or nuking a frozen dinner and all this,” he whips his arms out, gesturing at the entirety of the kitchen.

“You’re giving me a very poor picture of what you call food.” Peter shakes his head as he pulls the bread out of the oven.

Stiles snorts. “Of course you're a foodie.” When Peter cuts his gaze over at him, he chuckles. “With a kitchen like this, how could you be anything but a snob about food.”

“You're about to profit from my culinary preferences, Stiles. Insulting me isn't very nice.” Peter's mouth is tipped up in an amused smile though.

“Oh, sorry. Wouldn't want to hurt your feelings.” He rolls his eyes playfully. “Don't worry, I promise to take a picture, use a nice filter, and post it to Instagram.” He pauses, imagining the reaction doing so would garner. “God, Scott would have a fucking cow.”

Peter is plating the fettuccine noodles on white dishes edged in grey. “Please do it.” He grins.

Stiles huffs. “That's the last thing I should do. Scott is already pissed at me. I don't need to go poking the bear on that one.”

“Scott isn't enthusiastic about my release? Color me surprised. I expected him to come stomping in here and threatening me that first night and every night since then. After all, he does like to remind you when he's unhappy.”

Stiles frowns, but Peter isn't entirely off the mark. “He doesn't know where you live.”

Peter briefly pauses as he spoons out sauce. “Good.”

Stiles doesn't want to talk about the fight, but he can't help himself from speaking. He processes some things better when he can hear himself out loud.

“Yeah, he's annoyed about me getting you out of Eichen. He's _pissed_ because I keep hanging out with you.” Stiles starts moving, walking around the island and away from Peter as he speaks. “He thinks you're brainwashing me or something like that. He doesn't trust you.” Stiles swallows and paces along the bank of windows that make up the far wall of the living room. He knows Peter can hear him when he says, “he doesn't trust _me_.”

“Why would he have any reason to trust me? You, on the other hand,” Peter _tsks_ and brings two plates over to the small dining table adjacent to the living area.

Stiles turns to watch him from where he's standing in front of the sun setting over the skyline. Peter sounded sincere, like he's disappointed in Scott for questioning Stiles. That, right there, has his stomach dropping. He wraps his arms around himself, hands on opposite elbows.

“I didn't tell him I started practicing magic. Then I blew up at him and used it against him—”

Peter interrupts, saying, “in self defense,” but Stiles pretends to ignore him. He can't deny the relief that he feels though.

“Even you have to admit, this thing,” he uses one hand to gesture between the two of them, “is out of character. I used to fucking hate your guts. I literally wanted you to _die_ . _I tried to set you on fire_. I'm saying, I can see why Scott is weirded out and pissed off that I'm hanging out with you anyway.”

Stiles drifts to the dining table and picks up a fork to mess with the prongs. Peter is still standing there; Stiles can see him working his jaw out of the corner of his eye. Then, he sees him stalk away towards the kitchen to grab the bread he toasted.

He doesn't know why he is trying to defend Scott's position, especially after their fight. The words just come out of his mouth, and he feels idiotic for it. After all, he fought with not only Scott, but his dad too, about this very thing. He's parroting their words right back to Peter.

“I…” Stiles drops the fork back onto the table and runs both hands through his hair, frustrated at himself. “It's changed though.”

That's the crux of the conflict. There is a very real history of Peter hurting and manipulating people, people Stiles cares for. And yet, he is finding that as time goes on and he survives one thing after another, he understands Peter better. Stiles finds himself identifying with him in some respects. His view of Peter is morphing. This is aided by the fact that Peter has been more open with him lately and willing to cede to Stiles’ demands without very much fuss. He's even been proactively helpful.

Suddenly, Peter is right there setting the stupid fucking Italian bread down on the table. “It changed.”

Stiles grips the back of his neck, nails digging into his skin. “Yeah.” He meets Peter's gaze and takes a deep breath.

“I don't know why, or when. And I know...I know I _shouldn't_ trust you. There are so many reasons not too when you stack them up against the short list of reasons why I do anyway.”

Silence hangs in the air, and Stiles drops his arms to his sides. He feels lighter in some way, after finally voicing the thing that's been building inside of him. He feels sheepish too though. Peter has the power now, without a doubt. There was no lie for Stiles’ heart to give away. Telling him the truth, that's another indicator of Stiles’ trust, isn't it?

Peter sits down in front of the other plate, flicking out his napkin and smoothing it over his lap. Several emotions play quickly over his face before Peter looks up at him with a faint smile.

“You have no idea how pleased it makes me to know I have your trust.” He nods at the empty seat Stiles is standing at, indicating he should sit. “Could have done without the reminder of how much you hated me, but I appreciate the end results.”

Stiles pulls the chair back and slumps into it. “Yeah. So, don't go fucking me over, I guess.” He sighs, dejected.

He looks at Peter fully, remembering the promise he made to himself. “I'm serious. If you double-cross me, you're dead.”

Stiles trusts Peter, as impossible as some may define that, but he knows what Peter is capable of doing. He can't let himself become blind, nor will he allow Peter to attempt to gloss over their past.

Peter leans over and picks up Stiles’ hand where it's resting on the table. “I have no intention of doing so.”

Stiles studies him. He almost wants to find a reason to reject Peter's assertion. It would be safer, fall back into the tried and true dislike and distrust that was cultivated over time. More than that though, Stiles wants to believe him.

He knows people don't change. They don't change into a completely different version of themselves, but they do shift into different degrees of the same basic personality. Peter may still be ruthless and calculating, manipulative, but over the past few weeks—the last few days, especially—it has felt like Peter has allowed Stiles to see him in a different light. Peter isn't a simple, one dimensional villain to Stiles anymore.

He clears his throat and slips his arm out of Peter's grasp. “Well, good.” He huffs, sitting back in his seat. “Because I don't really want to have to kill you.”

The relief in taking Peter at his word is a warm ember in his chest.

Peter smiles. “The mark of a good friendship.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, not bothering to stop the laugh that bubbles up. Peter's words sink in a few seconds later, as Stiles is tearing into a piece of bread.

“We're friends, then?” He tests it out, nose wrinkling in jest. He pops a section of bread into his mouth and smiles around it.

When Peter tilts his head in agreement, Stiles purses his lips and swallows. “Friends that have kissed and groped each other.”

“Yes,” Peter grins. He carefully twirls his fork in his pasta.

Stiles chews on some more bread, glowering at Peter when the older man doesn't say anything else. He's really fucking annoying sometimes. After finishing off his hunk of bread, Stiles drinks some water.

“Nothing. No elaboration or explanation.” Stiles shrugs, incredulous.

He's spent so much time running from what's been going on between the two of them, that now that he's started talking about one thing, he suddenly needs to discuss all of it. Adrenaline is pumping through his veins now. The rush has him jittery and his leg bouncing.

Peter finally speaks, amusement capped with seriousness. “Do you want an explanation?”

His eyes are steady and Stiles looks into them for several seconds, putting the brakes on his mouth long enough to check in with himself one more time. Peter eats a bite while Stiles considers the question.

“Yeah, I do, because I don't really fucking understand.” Stiles busies himself by swirling some noodles onto his own fork.

The sauce is thick, creamy. It's delicious. Stiles closes his eyes, caught up in the taste, for a moment. He might even make a small sound of ecstasy. The only alfrefo he's ever had came from a glass jar. That can barely be put in the same category as what's on his plate right now.

“Holy shit, this is good.” He blinks down at the food in front of him.

Peter chuckles and takes a sip of his water. “Thank you.

“As for the explanation you want, I assume you know what attraction is?” He teases, because he's an asshole. “I can't speak for you, but I can say that I've always found you compelling. Even before I considered you as anything more than a clever boy who could be used for my advantage.”

Stiles can feel his cheeks heating at Peter's confession. While he has suffered from the average teenage case of self-esteem issues, Stiles knows he's okay looking. He's got a specific kind of lanky geek look that some people enjoy. He's smart and he's funny. There are benefits to having him around. Still, it flusters him to listen to Peter heavily implying that.

Peter continues, “I think the circumstances we have found ourselves in—working together in a more intimate setting while at certain points in our lives—has opened up an opportunity to let our mutual attraction flourish.” He sets his fork down. “We've been reacting naturally to it.”

The concise way Peter explains it makes everything sound so reasonable. Oh, of course, that's what's happening, how silly that Stiles should question it. Maybe it is that simple, at its core, but there are so many reasons why they never should have—why Stiles never should have kissed Peter that first time. Today, fighting with his dad and Scott, highlighted two very important reasons why they should stop.

Stiles is well aware of why he shouldn't enjoy and long for anything physical from Peter. Hell, he's spent the last few days actively trying to ignore the situation precisely because of those reasons. His problem is that, despite everything, he hasn't been able to stop himself from wanting Peter that way.

“Yeah,” he says uncertainly. “We have a mutual attraction, and are reacting to it.” He covers his face with one hand, still not quite able to believe this is his life and he's having this conversation. His cheeks are still warm.

Peter is quiet while Stiles processes. He eventually offers, “we can stay where we are, as allies and confidantes.” His expression is sour. “If you're suddenly repulsed by the idea.”

His offering, no matter how reluctant, relaxes Stiles. It's unexpected, really, that Peter would even try and compromise. It seem incongruous to the idea of Peter that Stiles built up over time. Peter is selfish. This isn't selfish, though.

Stiles imagines what it would be like to allow himself to touch him and be touched, without guilt or shame. Peter already takes liberties, in some respects, with his near constant habit of casually putting his hands on Stiles in ways that can't be construed as strictly platonic. Stiles likes it. As much as Peter must be, and has alluded to being, touch starved, Stiles cannot deny he finds comfort in those interactions as well.

“Do you think we should stop? _Can_ we stop?” Stiles picks at his pasta some more, deflecting for the time being. The sauce is delicious and he's hungry, but the conversation has diverted his attention. It feels as if he's been laying himself bare tonight.

“Some caution would do,” Peter sounds like he's making a concession. “The age difference alone is enough reason to do so.”

Peter is fifteen years older than him and a full fledged adult where Stiles only turned eighteen a month ago. Stiles can't help the petulant part inside that wants to push away this glaring fact.

Peter continues, “your father, and most people you know, would be skeptical at best. Even if I was an accountant or a lawyer who never even got a parking ticket, people would raise questions over the two of us.”

“That's not what I asked.” Stiles frowns. He already knows this. “ _Do you think we should stop?_ ” He repeats his question.

“It's not up to me.” Peter sighs, glancing up at the ceiling and rolling his shoulders like he's trying to work tension out of them. When he looks back at Stiles, he he sighs. “You're the one with the most at stake. I would very much like to continue, but, this? I'm not the one who makes that decision.”

Something in his expression makes Stiles pause. Peter looks earnest, and not the faux earnest look Stiles has seen before. He looks like he wants him to listen despite the fact that Peter seems to be sacrificing a lot to tell him he's not going to call the shots on this one.

“What about the weird, like, rough stuff?” The question tumbles out, embarrassment blooming up as soon as he speaks.

After discussing the age gap, his question sounds so... _high school_. He almost takes it back, wants to play it off some how. Despite the embarrassment, asking feels good. He's been twisted up inside about his feelings for Peter and avoiding them, that laying it all out in the open is a relief. So much of his life lately has been made up of half-truths and intrigue. He doesn't retract his question. They might as well discuss it.

The way Peter will hold him down or use just a little too much force with him isn't scary in the way it could be. It doesn't feel threatening. He’s known pain and restraint for intimidation and hurt’s sake. He's known accidental pain during sex. But what Peter does, what Stiles thinks he's capable of doing, feels like none of that. He's drawn to it as much as he's confused about why and what it is.

"'Honestly, 'weird’ is relative. No one judges you for what condiments you put on your sandwich; it's ridiculous to judge preference. I'm not interested in forcing you to do things you don't like.” Peter arches a brow.

"The first night was an accident. I didn't need you to regret sleeping with me, but you needed to calm down. I redirected you into something I thought might help, though I didn't know you'd be so easy for it.” Peter closes his eyes as if he's savoring the memory of something for a moment, then meets Stiles’ gaze. “Lines were crossed. Anything else from here forward, involving dynamics, we'll negotiate.”

After it happened, Stiles hadn't focused on how it started, with Peter forcing him down and the anger and panic that had welled up inside enough that he unconsciously fought back with his magic. What he'd been caught up in analyzing later on was the way it had felt once he accepted Peter’s direction, how he had been able to relax and let go of his anxiety and the built up frenetic energy he'd had inside. He'd been fantasizing about Peter's chest against his back, hand on his skin, his presence looming over Stiles in a way that didn't actually feel threatening, that felt almost safe.

Stiles examines it now, thinking back to how angry and scared he was at first, before he relaxed into it. All this time, he'd been swept up in the end result, that he'd glossed over how it started. Looking at it now, after Peter has shined a light on it, he feels uncertain.

With every small hurt and casual violation he's endured over his life, the past few years especially, he’s come to a place where they barely register for longer than he endures in the moment it takes place. It's compartmentalized. Hearing Peter all but apologize, Stiles feels something inside soften, even as he doesn't quite know what to say to that. What Peter did, it was messed up, but does the harm outweigh the gain? Vice versa

“Wait, wait, wait.” Stiles shakes his head, pushing aside that train of thought for now. “I missing something here. What the hell does negotiating dynamics mean? What, like BDSM? Because there were never any whips, chains, or candle wax, man.”

His pulse is rising again, because he has a vague idea of what Peter means. He's seen all kinds of porn; he heard things about that Fifty Shades franchise. Stiles is having a hard time adjusting to the idea that what he pictures in his head when Peter mentions “dynamics” has anything to do with what Stiles has been feeling. Still, something about it does slot into place, if he doesn't superimpose himself in the roll of helpless sub from a porn. Focusing on the general idea of Peter's presence and authority over him, and the reaction that inspires within Stiles, is when it begins to make some sense.

Peter pushes his plate away and takes a deep breath. “Something like that. BDSM is a very broad spectrum that includes lots of things. The dynamics between us, how we've been working together whenever it gets heated, that falls within that spectrum. You've got so much to learn, first.” His mouth twitches, then smooths out. “Hopefully, I will be the one who gets to help you explore that.”

Stiles’ eyes widen, and he goes a little breathless. The look on Peter's face when he talks about wanting him, before and like this, ignites a fire inside him. He doesn't really understand what Peter is talking about, because BDSM— _dynamics_ —feels so far removed from reality. What Stiles understands is that he wants Peter back, he trusts Peter enough that it doesn't feel like Stiles is following some hormone laden urge. He's wants to keep doing what they've been doing, and more of it, despite the fact that most of the people in his life won't understand and won't support it right away, if ever. He wants Peter.

“That night, when you said you wanted everything, you really meant _everything_.” Stiles’ voice is rough, the joke falling flat.

He straightens up, surprised, when Peter slides from his chair to his knees next to him. Peter takes his chin in hand and turns Stiles’ head so he couldn't look away if he wanted to. This way, they are close and at the same height.

“Yes, Stiles, I want everything.” Peter caresses the curve of his chin. Peter's gaze is intense and heavy. “But I will take whatever you're willing to give me.”

Stiles is leaning forward without realizing it. “Okay,” he practically sighs.

Peter smiles softly and tilts Stiles’ head down using his grip on his chin. He kisses his forehead once. Then, he's standing up and moving back to his seat.

“I don't want an answer tonight.” When Stiles opens his mouth to argue, Peter gives him a sharp look and continues, “it's good we discussed these things, but you need to go home and think about it all. I told you before, I have no interest in forcing you into doing anything you don't want. And I don’t want you trying to start up something with me, half-cocked, only to realize you're resenting me for it.”

Stiles narrows his eyes, frustrated. “After all this, you're just going to tell me to go home and think about it?”

Peter takes a sip of water before saying, “and research. You said it yourself: you're missing some of the info. I've given you enough for a jumping off point that you should be able to find it on your own, at your own pace. If you need help, I can text you some links.” His smile is playful.

Stiles snorts derisively. Peter is giving him sex homework.

“If this is going to work for very long and work well, then we have to respect each other.” Peter looks irritated at Stiles’ flippant behavior.

“You can say yes to some of it, all, or none of it, later. I'm not going to accept some knee-jerk decision tonight, when you don't have any idea what you might be agreeing to or dismissing. Anything from continuing our friendship to including play in our sex life is up for negotiation…after you've done your research.”

“Just so we're clear, here,” Stiles claps his hands together, “you're sending me home to do sex homework instead of smushing our faces together and getting down and dirty.”

Peter laughs. “You don't have to go home yet. You can finish dinner first.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, smiling a little. “How kind.” He shoves some pasta into his mouth. Around the chewing he says, pointing his fork at Peter, “after dinner I'm gonna practice magic on you. Mountain ash circles, bitch.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> •Thank you to Devona_Dil for raising a question in how I wrote Stiles reacting to Peter's almost-apology. I was very sloppy in showing the reader what Stiles felt* about the entire incident. I've rewritten that part, and it hopefully reflects my intent better.
> 
> *Sometimes, violations and abuse are only realized long after the fact, and only once you've been educated that what you experienced isn't healthy and/or safe. If, during the incident, you aren't aware or can't process that you've been violated, that doesn't make your feelings (during and after) any less valid (whatever feelings they are; everyone reacts differently). Not realizing until after the fact does not make the violation null. 
> 
> •I feel the responsible thing to do here is to point out that right after Peter refuses to accept Stiles' consent tonight about furthering the relationship, he says they need to respect each other. You can view that as hypocritical. You can also view that as Peter hoping to avoid more angst/heartache for the both of them later on by refusing to rush into a more physical relationship right this moment, when Stiles hasn't yet had time to digest the full extent of what Peter is offering and asking. When I wrote this, I wrote it with both things in mind, existing together.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for show level violence & gore in this chapter.

 

“I know the realty market has been slow as fuck lately, thanks to all the murder and mayhem. It's practically Santa Carla, minus the vampires.” Stiles reasons while he and Peter ride the elevator down to the ground floor. He looks at Peter from the corner of his eye as he digs his keys out of his pocket. “Oh God, please tell me vampires aren't actually real.”

A corner of Peter's mouth twitched before he asks, “did you just make a _Lost Boys_ reference?”

“It's a classic.” Stiles flips his keys around on one finger once before gripping them in the palm of his hand. “Don't think I didn't notice that blatant redirection. But,” he sighs and leans heavily back against the wall of the elevator, “I don't feel like wrapping my mind around the idea of vampires right now. So, as I was saying: we’re going to have to go to the preserve to do this. I need plenty of space, and I don't think my dad would appreciate finding out about a nine-one-one call that came in about two dudes blasting magic fairy dust around.”

The elevator comes to a halt, and Peter slides open the door.

“You do remember the last time you were in the preserve, yes?” His eyes cut over to Stiles as they walk to the parking lot.

“Yeah, but it's our only real option right now.”

Stiles unlocks the passenger door of the Jeep first because it's easier than getting in and leaning over to do it. Before he climbs in, Peter briefly rests a hand against Stiles’ side, lips quirked in a mischievous little smile. Stiles refuses to wait around for Peter to get situated in his seat; he can shut the door himself. Stiles isn't his white knight. He does smile to himself as he trots around to the other side.

“If you plan to try your hand at casting mountain ash circles, then I assume you have the necessary items.” Peter’s tone is less severe than the judgemental choice of words.

“Oh, ye of little faith.” Stiles hooks his thumb over his shoulder. “I got a bunch of it from Deaton a while back, because that shit is useful.” He cranks the engine and puts it into gear. “Of course, I didn't know then that I would be using it this way.”

He catches Peter eyeing the tied-off trash bag in the floorboard behind Stiles’ seat.

“For the record, I'm not entirely thrilled with this plan.”

Stiles laughs. “I didn't expect anything else. I need a werewolf for this though, so I know for sure when I've managed to get the circle to fully connect. I wish I had more time before the full moon to get this down pat.”

So far, Stiles’ most effective use of magic has been accidental. There's a coffee table book in his house full of optical illusion puzzles. When one looks at the photo, it's just a mass of blurry colors; it's when the eye relaxes and stops directly focusing that the hidden picture emerges. That's what Stiles feels like he's dealing with right now. Those first few days where he tried forcing his magic to bend to his will had been the hardest.

From what he's read, he needs to learn to let his spark flow through his body, learn to direct it, but not demand of it. He's still not quite sure how that is supposed to happen. But he needs to figure it out as quickly as he can, if he is going to be as useful as he hopes to be. Anxiety spikes again as he thinks about the danger they're all in, Malia especially.

“You have a natural talent, at least.” Peter has a rueful smile on his mouth, as if remembering how it felt to have Stiles lighting up his nervous system with pain. “Perhaps that will be enough for now.”

“Maybe.” Stiles chews on his bottom lip as he drives.

They park in a gravel clearing accessing the preserve and walk for several minutes until the woods surround them. The sky is bright with the gibbous moon, light filtered through thick clouds. Beneath the canopy of leaves, Stiles can still only make out vague shapes.

As he crouches down to untie the trash bag he hauled along with him, he mutters, “this may have been a stupid idea. If I can't see properly, I don't know how well this is going to work.”

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he pulls it out to check. Scott sent two texts, back-to-back, asking if the two of them were okay. He thumbs over the lock-screen, thinking of replying, but unsure what the right answer is. Instead, he sighs silently and pockets his phone again.

“I can see just fine.” Peter says from where he's leaning against a tree. Stiles can just make out the tilt of his cheek from where Peter is, no doubt, smirking. “Come on, darling, show me what you got.”

A warm flush heats Stiles’ neck at the teasing quality of Peter's voice. “Yeah, yeah. Weren't you just telling me how scared you were?” He teases right back, plunging his hand into the thick ash.

When he stands, he squares his shoulders and faces Peter, chin tilted up.

“I'm not scared,” Peter pushes off the tree. In the half darkness of the preserve, he seems larger than usual. “It's a healthy level of caution, considering my history.”

Stiles almost feels guilty at the reminder of how Peter had been trapped in the house with the majority of his pack as everything burned down around him. If Peter truly wasn't willing to let him practice on him, Stiles would find another way. Malia would probably let him use her. But this is easier, because they had already been hanging out.

There's a part of Stiles that likes the idea of having Peter literally at his mercy.

“Now,” Peter continues, sauntering closer, “should we make things interesting?”

Stiles doesn't shrink away when Peter edges towards him, eyes glowing bright blue in the dark. The glint of light on his claws catches Stiles' attention, anticipation coursing through him.

“What, are you going to chase me?” He tightens his fist, feeling the ash warm against his skin. The words come out tilted with amusement and intrigue.

Peter smiles around a mouth full of too-sharp teeth. “Yes.”

Stiles’ muscles flex, coiling and ready to take flight. This is a good idea and a terrible one. He hasn't really had any good experiences of running from werewolves. The idea in this moment—of letting Peter chase him, and being encouraged to try and trap Peter in turn—appeals to him. It'll be _fun_. That's something that has been in short supply lately.

It takes less than a moment for him to reach inside and access the flame of his spark. He can feel it there, flickering and ready to be let loose.

“It isn't a fair fight when you're faster and stronger than me.” Stiles takes a step backwards, arm rising; he's smiling.

“Of course not.” Peter is less than two yards away at this point, moving slowly.

Stiles turns on his heel and launches into a run. He's thankful for the moonlight, as sparse as it is through the tops of the trees. He jumps over rocks and exposed roots, only tripping a little. There's no sound behind him for a few minutes, and he wonders if Peter is giving him a head start to keep the chase a little bit challenging. He arcs to the left, making sure not to go too far away from the sack of mountain ash and where they entered the preserve.

Finally, Stiles hears the sound of Peter crashing behind him. Adrenaline starts to pump through his veins, primordial urge to save himself kicking off. Peter growls somewhere to his right, and it sounds like it's right in his ear, hungry and insistent. Claws swipe at his back, just close enough to make Stiles squeak in surprise. It must all be show, because Stiles knows if he really wanted to, Peter could have already caught and pinned him.

Latching onto the feel of his spark, Stiles pictures a perfect circle of mountain ash forming at Peter's feet. He chances a look over his shoulder to help aim, then tosses the fistful of ash backwards. The ash is on the peripheral of his consciousness.

It falls in a curve behind him, but Stiles can tell it doesn't come close to connecting. Still, he grins to himself when the barrier causes Peter to let out an annoyed growl and throw his body to the side so he doesn't run into an invisible wall.

“Almost,” Peter taunts. “But what are you going to do now that you've wasted your ash?”

Peter has disappeared between the trees. Stiles slows down, trying to spot his werewolf but only seeing the dark outlines of tree trunks and overgrown bushes. He's sweating, breathing hard more out of the excitement thrumming through his body than the exertion running for a few minutes caused. Stiles tries to reach out mentally and find the ash he threw out, but can't quite manage it when the rest of his attention is focused on keeping a lookout for Peter.

That's why he's practicing though. He's got to get better.

Instead of continuing his mental search for the ash, Stiles casts his gaze towards where he's pretty sure the trash bag full of the stuff was left. He licks his lips, scanning his surroundings one more time, before dashing off towards the bag. He gets exactly ten feet closer to it before he's being grabbed around the waist and rolled to the side. The landing knocks the breath out of him, but the arms and chest pressed to him keeps Stiles from feeling more of the impact.

“Damn it!” Stiles barks out a laugh, gasping for air. He shoves Peter's arms off and flops onto the ground. “That sucked balls.”

Peter sits up, bracing his weight on an elbow so he can lean over Stiles a little. His eyes are still glowing, teeth still needle sharp. It might be the longest he's been shifted into his beta form around Stiles. For some reason, Stiles finds that endearing, like he's being shown something special. The smile Peter gives is still frightening enough to keep Stiles from doing something crazy like tracing the tip of a fang.

“We can go again. Chasing you is quite fun.” Peter's chest rumbles, pleased and suggestive.

He smooths the back of his free hand down Stiles’ cheek before turning it so his claws drag lightly over the column of Stiles’ neck. Letting Peter explore, Stiles tilts his head back a fraction, adrenaline rapidly shifting into arousal. Briefly, he imagines Peter fucking him on the forest floor, right here, claws and sharp teeth digging into his skin. It sends a shiver down his spine before he remembers they have a goal here. Besides, Peter's already said they won't be doing much of anything sexual until Stiles does that homework.

He rolls his eyes. “Get up, then.”

Peter presses his face into the curve of Stiles' neck, shoulders shaking minutely with laughter. Groaning because he's pretty sure he knows _why_ Peter is laughing, Stiles pushes the older man away and stands. He heads over towards his bag to get another handful of ash.

They start again, Stiles running in a different direction with Peter giving him a head start. This time, once he hears Peter, Stiles lets his magic slip through him and reach out. He knows he's got his target when the warmth of his spark ignites inside, smoldering and flickering. He listens to Peter falter as pain ripples through him. Stiles slings his body around and throws the ash out, willing a circle to fall around Peter.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Peter grits the word out, hands gripping the side of his head as he hunches over, coming to an abrupt halt.

Stiles sucks in a breath, pulling his magic back until it's just a warm glow inside. He jogs over to where Peter is, and lets out a whoop of triumph.

“Yes! I did it! I did it, right?” Stiles walks around the very thin line of ash, circling Peter as he goes.

“Yes.” Peter stands up fully, reaching out until his hand meets the ash barrier. He frowns at his hand before dropping it to his side. “You cheated.” He's pouting, but Stiles is pretty sure it's mostly for show.

Stiles crosses his arms, proud and pleased. “Uh, duh, man. This is so awesome! It's, like, real magic.”

“What, exactly, did you think it was every other time you used your magic then?” Peter arches an eyebrow. His features morph back into human form and he sighs. “You did it. Good job. Now let me out.”

“Maybe I should just let you squirm there a bit.” Stiles teases. When he sees Peter go still, face hard, Stiles shakes his head. “Hey, no. I'm just kidding. Here—”

A loud crack makes Stiles jump and hunch down instinctively. He knows the sound of gunfire. Cold fear shoots through him and he scrambles forward to break the ash circle.

That's when he sees Peter, down to one knee, hands clutching at his chest. His blood is almost black in the reflection of the moon.

“ _Peter_!” Stiles shouts the word out, shocked.

Electric blue eyes look up at him for a second before looking behind him. “Run, Stiles. _Run!”_ He yells angrily.

It's too late though, between the seconds Stiles hears the gunshot and when he realizes Peter was the one shot, Stiles is slammed in the back of the head. His vision starbursts then goes wobbly, ears ringing, just before the pain radiates out. He's on the ground, looking up at the Desert Wolf as she stares down at him, holstering her gun.

“Wha—” Stiles can't quite wrap his mind around anything, synapses misfiring as his stomach churns and his head throbs in a giant mass of too much pain.

The Desert Wolf looks over at Peter who is yelling incoherently, probably threatening and promising death if Stiles were able to parse anything. Her smile is beatific before it smooths out into a line. Stiles tries sweeping her legs out from beneath her, but he moves too slowly and clumsy.

“You are a stupid, stupid boy, aren't you?” She muses as she grabs Stiles by the hair, pulling him up like it takes no effort. “Fucking a werecoyote and playing in the woods with a werewolf. You're just asking to be killed.”

Stiles can't help but whimper. The pained roars he hears Peter let out rips at Stiles’ insides. He doesn't know how close the bullet landed to his heart, but Stiles is scared he's going to die there in front of him, trapped in an ash circle he created. As the pain in his head dissipates enough that he can start thinking again, Stiles struggles to come up with a plan that will give Peter a chance.

“I guess you must be important though, if that daughter of mine cares so much for you.” The Desert Wolf spits her disdain. She cranks her arm back so Stiles’ neck bows and his back is forced to arch unnaturally to accommodate the angle. “I think you'll live for a little bit longer. Killing you in front of her will be much more satisfying.”

Stiles struggles, hitting with his arms, yelling. But the grip she has on him, plus the concussion he's likely sporting now are enough to make his fighting useless. He closes his eyes to block out as much stimuli as he can. His spark is there, waiting for him.

The burst of power sends the two of them flying in the air, a clump of hair ripping out from where the Desert Wolf had been holding him. He slams back against a tree, arm jarring wrong in the socket. He scrambles back up and runs for where Peter is kneeling, face ashen.

“Peter, no. Come on!” He almost makes it before he's tackled to the ground.

Peter shakes his head, grimacing. “Wolfsbane,” he barely gets the word out, agonizing pain evident across his posture and expression. He heaves, throwing up.

Fury rises up in Stiles. He claws at the Desert Wolf, managing to wrangle himself free enough that he can bring his hands together and quickly swipe them down. With every ounce of willpower he has, Stiles wishes and pictures and _demands_ the ash circle break. He cries out when his air is choked off by an arm wrapped around his neck, yanking him back down as the Desert Wolf climbs on top of him.

“No! He's going to die!” The Desert Wolf screams, glaring at Peter then down at Stiles.

She backhands him and grabs both his arms, forcing them down with unseen strength. She snarls at Peter who bares his fangs in retaliation.

He can taste blood in his mouth, coppery and thick. “Get the fuck off me, bitch!”

He stretches his neck back, frantically looking to see if his last ditch effort paid off. Peter is crawling towards them, blue eyes flickering and breath labored. Stiles squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, relieved.

Stiles tries to headbutt her but misses. He wriggles his body because she has his arms, zip tying them together at the wrists behind his back. He spits blood and saliva at her, angry and scared. The Desert Wolf flips him over onto his stomach and picks him up by his sore arm, causing him to let out a pained gasp.

There is almost no time to come up with a plan or run through his possibilities. He could try blasting her with force again, but is worried about fucking his own arms up in the process. He is itching to crawl into her head and set her on fire with pain, but she might shoot him, or Peter to make him stop. The best thing to do, he decides, is to let her take him wherever and get as far away from Peter as possible. That way, Peter might have a chance to call someone. All Stiles can do is hope they get to him soon enough that Peter might not die from the poisoning.

Either the Desert Wolf doesn't believe in motor transportation, or she just enjoys strolling through the woods. Stiles gets dragged for what feels like twenty minutes. The echo of Peter's roar rings through the trees and bounces around Stiles’ skull, but as far as he can tell Peter doesn't follow. Stiles hopes that means Peter's doing something practical, like making a phone call, instead of lying on the ground, heart slowly stopping.

The Desert Wolf doesn't bother lifting him up so he can get his feet beneath him as they make a harsh pace through the woods. By the time they stop moving, Stiles’ shoulder is a persistent throbbing mass of pain, not dislocated but feeling close to it. His wrists feel raw from the thin plastic biting into his skin. He's got scratches all over his face and neck after being dragged low to the ground the way he was. He’d had to stop trying to reason with her along the way because he kept getting mouthful of dirt and debris; his busted lip is bright with stinging pain.

He knows they haven't just stopped for a breather when he's unceremoniously dropped onto the ground and rolled over with a sharp kick in the side. That's gonna hurt for a while. Stiles can see the sky clearly, clouds and moon visible because they seem to be in a small clearing.

“Hey, whoa,” Stiles croaks, trying to inch away from the invasive hands rummaging through his pockets.

“Shut up.” She sounds bored as she divests him of his cell phone and keys. The pocket sized can of mace his dad gave him last winter gets a chuckle. “No knives or taser?”

“I'm suddenly wishing I had one.” Stiles grumbles. “I can't believe you used wolfsbane on your own kind.”

The Desert Wolf stands up once she's taken anything obviously useful off him. She shrugs. “I'm an assassin. I will use any tools necessary.” Her expression looks stormy, though Stiles can't guess why.

“What happens now? You just gonna use me as bait for Malia? Hope she follows my scent here so you can kill me before you kill her?” Stiles eases into a sitting position.

He's queasy and his head feels like it's swimming if he moves too quickly. He tries looking around to get a bearing but it's just more woods. The cloud cover is too thick to see the stars so he doesn't know which direction she took him. A weathered, small one room cabin is behind the Desert Wolf. It must be one of the handful of hunting cabins leftover from before the area was made into a protected preserve.

“Stop talking before I rip your tongue out.” She still looks a little distracted, annoyed.

Cooperating is probably his best bet right now, so Stiles keeps his mouth shut. When she yanks him up again, this time by his less sore arm, Stiles stumbles behind her as she rounds the cabin and comes to a shack. There's a motorcycle propped up against the side, and for a second Stiles wonders if the mechanics are the same as a dirt bike. It's an option for escape, at any rate. His attention is brought back to the shack when he's shoved inside and brought face to face with a small kennel cage. She opens it and shoves him in, kicking at his legs when he takes too long to crawl inside. He has to lean forward and sit on his calves, kneeling uncomfortably on the bare grid of the cage. Then she's spinning a combination lock on the door before locking the shack behind her as well.

He's pretty sure this is where the owner of the cabin used to dress their kills. The thought is not a comforting one.

The darkness is inky and oppressive around him without the light coming from the door. Stiles tries not to panic, reminds himself that he isn't claustrophobic. But the pitch black around him, adds to the feeling of doom welling up inside. It smells like old, damp decay in here, and Stiles can't help how his traitorous mind supplies the mental picture of his own dead body gutted and strung up to dry. The nausea comes rushing back, sweeping the contents of his stomach onto the floor in front of him. It makes his already aching ribs sear with a new wave of fresh pain.

Stiles spits, coughing and trying not to sob. This isn't how he dies. Stiles blinks the tears from his eyes and wipes his mouth against his shoulder. He's got to calm down and think rationally, make a new plan.

 


	13. Chapter 13

 

His eyes adjust to the dark before long, and even though it's almost pitch black, he can still see the general shape of things. There are cracks between the wooden planks that make up the walls. Stiles takes stock of his surroundings, not seeing much of anything that could help. He's thankful, for the sake of his imagination at least, that there aren't rusted saws and axes hanging on the walls. He can't hear anything but the occasional bird chirp from far away and the quiet rhythm of crickets going about their lives. Stiles strains to hear Peter or even Scott howling, calling for him.

Nothing.

He tries to get comfortable, but there's simply not enough room to move around more than a few inches. The metal is grating against his bare knees and shins, and he's lost circulation in his feet already. Stiles takes several deep breaths, leaning as far forward as he can. Then he raises his bound arms and brings them back down against his ass with as much force such a tight space will allow.

It's a technique Stiles practiced over and over one summer when he spent more time at the sheriff's department than at home. He'd been given a handful of zip ties by one of the deputies to distract him. After getting himself in trouble for zip tying almost every set of cabinets closed, he'd entertained himself by tying himself up and breaking free. He'd tried handcuffs later, but his dad grounded him for a month.

Stiles liked the red, stinging marks the plastic and metal left behind.

It takes longer to break the zip tie than it would have if he had full range of motion, but it does eventually pop apart. His wrists hurt with fresh bruising. He doesn't pay it any attention though as he rolls his shoulders gingerly. The left one is a tight burn that has him hissing. It'll hurt worse, once the adrenaline has worn away.

He can't turn around in the cage, which means he can't see the latch and lock. It feels familiar when he reaches back and runs his fingers over the door. The setup is almost identical to the kennels at Deaton’s clinic. Stiles bites the smile on his lips. The Desert Wolf might be an assassin, but it isn't looking like she has the most experience holding people captive. He supposes that is not high on her list when she's in the business of taking lives. Everything so far has been generic, uncomplicated though frustrating. A blessing.

The lock is a simple Master Lock like the ones provided by the high school for lockers. Stiles has broken into more of them than he should admit. Doing it backwards though, unable to see what he's doing, seems almost impossible. Sweat makes his fingers slippery and his arms are shaking from the odd angle and adrenaline. But he twists the knob, holds the shackle tight, and eventually gets the lock to open. He palms it, making sure not to drop it outside the kennel in case he needs to make it look like he hasn't tampered with anything, if she comes back before he's gone. After that, sliding the bolt free and swinging the door open is easy as pie. He shuffles back until he can slip sideways and stretch his legs out on the dirty floor.

His pulse is loud in his ears and it makes him paranoid that the Desert Wolf is listening, watching him, waiting. Was everything _too_ easy? Is she going to be standing outside the door with that gun, bullet with his name etched on it? Stiles shudders, tears slipping free. He doesn't even know which emotion swirling inside causes them. But he wipes them away and scrubs his hands through his hair after pocketing the lock.

His scalp is tender and tacky with congealed blood at his crown where a chunk of hair had been ripped out. He winces before rolling into his hands and knees to crawl towards the shack door. Listening hard and still not hearing anything more than the rush of his own blood, Stiles slowly, so slowly, turns the door knob. It twists beneath his palm and the door gives way for half an inch. There's a latch on the outside, a heavy-duty lock connected, that stands between him and freedom.

Stiles silently shuts the door again and presses his forehead to it. Fuck his life.

He has no idea how long until the Desert Wolf comes back for him. Presumably, she won't bother checking on him until at least morning, but it could be sooner.

Turning to sit with his back to the door, Stiles slumps and mentally checks out his body, how he's doing. The blow to the back of his head still aches, and he's got a migraine that has made every move a thousand times more difficult. He's still low-key nauseated, but tossing his cookies in the kennel apparently went a long ways to help that out. As for the scrapes, scratches, and bruises, Stiles has a plethora. Most of them are hardly worth note, just annoying. That leaves his shoulder, which hurts like a bitch, but is ,thankfully, not dislocated. All in all, he's not much worse from the wear.

Maybe, he thinks, being dragged through the underbrush will work to his advantage. That is, as long as whatever the Desert Wolf has been using to mask her scent didn't also cover his while she was handling him. Malia should be able to track him if he can't find a way to break himself free.

Stiles tilts his head back and stares, unseeing, at the ceiling. He can't stop picturing how Peter looked the last time he saw him. Peter's grey skin and blue eyes, flickering uncontrollably from human to beta. It brings to mind the time Derek had been poisoned by Kate. He'd been willing to take a bone saw to his arm and cut the thing off in order to stay alive. Peter won't have that option, not with the bullet lodged in his chest. Stiles doesn't even know where exactly the bullet landed, but it had only taken twelve hours for Derek to make it to the point of imminent death from a gunshot wound in his arm. How much faster will the poison travel to Peter's heart?

His stomach turns over again and he gags on bile, but he swallows it down. Peter can't die. He's already done that once and clawed his way back to life. After everything, Stiles can't take the idea that one more person might be dying on him. Especially not the one person that seems to trust him enough to let Stiles run lead with his instincts. The person who treats him with respect and value in a way he has never experienced.

No, Peter is smart; he's a survivor. Stiles has to believe that the werewolf managed to get a hold of someone to come find him and get him to the antidote. If that happens, then not only will Peter live, but someone will come looking for him too. Help could be on its way right now.

It might not, though.

He's got to get himself free and as far away from here as possible. Once he does that—once he gets home—he can help the pack come back and kill this asshole.

A half hour passes, maybe longer, before he tries moving again. He's worried about making too much noise and drawing attention to himself. The locked door is a no-go right now because Stiles might be able to break a simple combination lock, but he doesn't have anything on hand that could pick the one keeping the shack closed. He decides to investigate the contents of the small room he's in further. Maybe something will turn up.

It's almost impossible to see what he's doing so he uses his hands to touch the things around him, slowly. The legs of a table are the first thing he finds after nearly knocking over some empty buckets. On top of the table, he finds some rags, but nothing else. Along the wall where the kennel sits, is a shelving unit. He can make out coiled rope, an ancient radio that is probably broken, a metal tool box, and a flashlight.

Fingers picking at the latch on the toolbox, Stiles tries opening it. Maybe there will be a wrench or a small hammer. The noise from using either on the lock would certainly draw attention, but Stiles would rather have something he could improvise as a weapon over having nothing. The toolbox is too rusted to open though, not if he wants to avoid making a loud screeching noise of metal on metal. The first squeak the lid makes has Stiles sucking in a breath and feeling cold with dread. He freezes in place for a long moment, but, again, hears nothing to indicate the Desert Wolf has heard him and is going to find him trying to break free.

The flashlight is a godsend. He shakes it and can hear batteries rattle inside. It take a lot of self-restraint not to try switching it on to see if it works. If it does, he would have an easier time of rifling through the contents of his surroundings with the aid of the flashlight. But, he can't chance the flashlight giving him away in his search. Instead, he sticks it in his back pocket. Once he gets free, it'll either help him get through the woods, or will be that impromptu weapon he was hoping for. It's got a heft to it, made of metal.

He keeps looking, but doesn't find anything else useful. That is, until he comes to the far wall where he finds out the shack has a window with cardboard taped over it. The tape is brittle with age and comes down easily. Suddenly, Stiles can see much more, and he has to blink rapidly to adjust to the new source of light. The window is small and latches from within.

The lock springs loose after only two tries. Stiles brings a hand up to his mouth to muffle the relieved noise threatening to spill out as the window swings open.

It's at chest height and half the size of a regular window, but Stiles is pretty sure he can squeeze through it. He cautiously rises to his tiptoes and looks out the window, seeing he's facing the back of the property. Another blessing.

He retrieves a bucket and tips it upside down to use as a step stool, then hoists himself over the lip of the sill. Stiles has to wriggle to get his shoulders through, and he nearly loses balance, but he makes it. He falls to the ground outside with barely a sound.

Stiles holds his injured arm with his free one, and gulps down fresh, free air. He can see the moon clearer now that the clouds have moved out. Looking at the pale expanse of it calms him down.

He can't hang around here for very much longer though. While the idea of zipping away on the motorcycle he saw earlier is tantalizing, it would be the quickest way to let his captor know he was trying to escape. Instead, he picks along the almost non-existent dirt driveway, following along through the trees lining it. Where there is a driveway, there will eventually be a road. Hopefully, he'll be able to flag down somebody before he has to walk several miles back into town.

The cabin is pretty far into the woods, because it feels like it takes Stiles a good twenty minutes before he hits paved cement. He's grateful when he sees the double yellow lines and the guardrails along the curve of the road. They're on one of the main roads, not an access point. He checks the sky again, this time able to tell he's east of town. That knowledge has him frowning at the stupidity of the night.

Last time he was attacked by the Desert Wolf, he'd been near the same location. He should have thought to come looking for the abandoned hunting cabins, instead of focusing on buildings in town. With a sigh, he pushes the self-criticism aside. It won't help him any to dwell on that right now. At least he's closer to town this way.

Stiles turns, grabbing the flashlight out of his back pocket, and flicks it on. He starts walking along the edge of the road.

Headlights swing around a bend in the road not more than fifteen minutes later. Stiles starts waving his arms around, bouncing the weak beam of his flashlight in hopes that the owner of the car coming his way spots him and stops.

“Stiles!” Scott's head pops out of the passenger window as Liam breaks too hard and the tires skid a little.

Stiles runs over to the car, incredulous relief washing over him, and pulls on the handle of the door behind Scott. He gets inside and pushes forward between the front seats.

He grips the fabric of Scott's shirt tightly. “Where's Peter?” He has to know. Peter _has_ to be okay.

Liam and Scott exchange a look that ratchets up the panic Stiles feels. He jerks the handful of fabric, “ _Scott_.”

They're moving now, and Scott turns in his seat to look back at Stiles. “He's with Deaton. I think he's going to be okay.” Scott grimaces. “He told us the Desert Wolf took you.”

Flopping back against the leather bench, Stiles sighs heavily. He's still worried, but at least he knows Peter’s still alive. “Good. Good.”

Liam looks at him in the rear-view mirror, “are you okay?”

“Yeah, dude. I can smell the blood on you. What happened?” Scott is still twisted in his seat so he can see Stiles. “Maybe Mom should look you over.” He cuts his gaze back to Liam again.

“No!” Stiles sits up. “I'm fine. And if your mom finds out, then my dad will too. It's just some scratches and a headache from hell. Don't worry about it. Take me to where Peter is.”

“Stiles, your face is all cut up. Your dad is gonna ask questions anyway.” Liam tries reasoning with him. “Did you get hit in the head? You could have a concussion.”

Irritation colors Stiles’ voice when he disregards Liam's words. “I'm _fine_ . Nothing some Tylenol can't take care of. _Take me to Deaton's_.”

He hears Scott sigh, but Liam shrugs.

 

* * *

 

Lydia is perched on one of the counters in Deaton's examination room when Stiles slams through the doors. Next to her, Malia stands with her arms crossed. Both girls rush over to check on him, words of concern and anger overlapping.

He brushes them off before asking, “Peter?”

“He's okay,” Lydia answers briskly. Her eyeliner is smudged and she looks like she might have been crying, though her voice is strong.

Malia nods her head and reaches out for Stiles again. He allows the tight hug she draws him into, but gently pushes her away quickly. He looks over her shoulder at where Peter is lying on the examination table.

Deaton shows up out of nowhere, but,then again, Stiles hasn't been paying attention to the whole room. He catches Scott and Kira linking hands and talking quietly, but ignores them in favor of hearing what Deaton has to say.

“He was shot in the chest with a bullet laced with wolfsbane. With the help of Lydia, I was able to get the antidote to him in time. If he'd been left alone in the preserve for an hour longer, he would have died.” Deaton's voice carries that soft and mysterious quality that pisses off Stiles in the best of times.

He can't keep his eyes off Peter now. The man is lying on the examination table, chest bared to expose where the bullet entered. Stiles watches the steady up and down movement, and is once again amazed by werewolf healing. Looking at him, no one would be able to tell that his chest had been a mess of blood and black oozing lines from infection less than three hours ago. It takes everything left in him not to scream at them all to get out so he can check on Peter alone.

“Stiles,” Lydia ventures. She lays a hand on his arm, making him jump. “He's alright.”

When her hand smooths down to curl around his hand, Stiles grips it tight. “He called you?”

He wouldn't have expected that. Peter and Lydia have never been on good terms, and it's all Peter's fault. Stiles wouldn't have blamed her if she didn't answer his call, but he's so thankful she did.

“He told me you were in trouble,” she brushes the hair on his temple back. “What happened? How did you get away?”

“I think we'll be able to track her down,” Scott speaks up, “using Stiles’ scent to find where she took him.”

Malia nods her head, “she must be staying in the woods. That's why she was able to find us in the Jeep. We should go now. Get her before she knows what's happening, right?” She looks at Stiles then to Scott.

“I don't recommend it.” Deaton explains, “you'll have surprise on your side, but Peter is going to be out for another couple of hours as his body recovers. Stiles needs some medical attention as well. You'll be going in short-handed without them. And I'm willing to bet that seeing Peter has made her curious, if not spooked. Having him with you could help sway the fight in your favor in more than one way.”

No one seems to like what Deaton is saying, but Stiles agrees. When they take her down, he wants to be there.  He promised to give Peter the kill.  He doesn't voice any of this though, not trusting that Scott won't pick a fight over it. With the way he's feeling right now, Stiles knows he could go off the deep end if provoked too much.

“We'll deal with this tomorrow. Go home.” He croaks, throat raw and dry, glaring at the stainless steel Peter is lying on.

Scott makes a sound but Kira shakes her head, and he says, “okay.” The hand he lies on Stiles’ arm is hesitant. “I'm glad you're okay.”

“Thank you,” Stiles looks over at Scott briefly before turning his eyes to Lydia and Malia.

He braces his hands on the examination table, by Peter's side. He's exhausted and it's settling into his muscles and bones now that he's safe. The adrenaline crash is going to be a fucking killer soon.

“Stiles, do you mind if I check you over?” Deaton comes closer.

Deaton makes quick work of examining Stiles since most everything is superficial. The raw place on Stiles’ scalp gets some antibacterial spray, and he's given a wet cloth to clean off his face. Deaton prods his shoulder and asks questions about what level the pain is, checks how well he can move. It's just a bad strain that only requires time to heal. The hit on the back of his head, did, apparently cause a mild concussion. He gets a long spiel about rest and keeping an eye on his symptoms, that the worst of it should be gone by the next day.

By the time Deaton is finished, everyone else has left and Stiles swallows down some acetaminophen.

“Stiles?” Peter asks, pushing up from the table. He zeroes in on Stiles, expression almost panicked.

Deaton slips out of the room, but Stiles barely notices. He's shaking and can't seem to get a good handle on how oxygen works. He stands there on the other side of the room, holding a paper cup of water, staring at Peter who looks solid and strong and _alive_. But Stiles blinks and he's in the woods again, watching as Peter bleeds and poison works its way to his heart. The gunshot is loud, deafening in Stiles’ head. It echoes and replays over and over, for seconds, hours. He can feel blood splatter hot and visceral on his face where there is none.

He's pulled into a tight, warm embrace. It takes a while before Stiles can hear Peter murmuring to him, soft words like “it's okay; I've got you.” When he comes back to himself, Stiles brings his arms up to claw at Peter's shoulders, holding on hard enough to bruise. He's still shaking, tears he hadn't been aware of rolling down his cheeks.

“I thought you were going to die.” Stiles’ voice wavers. “I...I thought—”

Peter hushes him, pulling back enough that he can look Stiles in the eye. He frames Stiles’ face with his hands. “I'm here, alive. So are you, Stiles. My brave, strong, beautiful Stiles. You got us out.”

He tries shaking his head, but Peter's hands keep him from getting very far. Stiles bites his lip, holding in a sob. It's the burnout from adrenaline, he's sure. But the jitters and the raw feeling he has is almost too much. He's scared he's going to keep seeing Peter dying, a recent loose boulder of a memory that brings down a rockslide of every violent experience he's had. Stiles grips Peter's wrists like a lifeline.

“We're getting out of here. Come on.” Peter tugs Stiles along with an arm around the shoulders, rubbing his bicep in soothing strokes.

The Jeep is in the parking lot when they get outside. It doesn't makes sense at first. The Desert Wolf has his keys and they'd driven it to the preserve earlier. It should still be there.

Peter seems to know what he's thinking because he says, “Malia drove me in your Jeep while Lydia tailed us. She knew about the spare key taped under the bumper, and didn't want me bleeding all over her upholstery. ” He smiles as he opens the passenger door for Stiles.

“You called Malia?” He leans his head back against the seat, distantly aware of Peter buckling his seat belt for him.

Peter hums, slow to straighten up. “I called Lydia. She brought Malia and Scott with her.” He squeezes Stiles’ knee and shuts the door before rounding to the driver side.

Stiles will want the whole story later, but he can't think clearly right now. His head feels like it's stuffed with cotton and his skin is so sensitive it is as if he has been flayed. When Peter brushes a hand down his neck, it's comforting where even the feel of Stiles’ shirt feels too rough. He shuts his eyes.

He doesn't fall asleep, but he drifts as Peter drives. When he hears the engine cut off, he's reluctantly prepared to face his father. It's the middle of the night and Stiles hasn't spoken to him since their blow up. Surely, his dad is waiting impatiently and worriedly to see him. The prospect makes Stiles groan with displeasure. He doesn't have it in him to take on the guilt or worry his dad will have once finds out what happened. Stiles can't deal with the argument that is bound to arise afterwards, not right now.

Instead of his garage, Stiles is looking at the brick of Derek's building. “Um?”

Peter twists towards him, hand on his leg. He has barely stopped touching him since he got off the examination table.

“Stay with me?” He presses his lips together, expression intent.

Stiles shouldn't. He should go home and face his dad.

“Okay,” he unbuckles his seat belt and slowly climbs out of the Jeep.

They hold hands on the way up to Peter’s floor. In the kitchen, Peter gets two bottles of water, and gives one to Stiles. It's cold, refreshing, and almost sweet tasting. He chugs it down so fast he chokes a bit.

“Easy,” Peter cautions, tossing his own empty bottle into a recycling bin. “After everything, you can't drown in my kitchen from a sip of water.”

The smile on his face feels foreign but good when Stiles walks over to Peter and presses his face to his chest. He still isn't wearing a shirt. His skin smells like ash and sweat, reminders of what he's been through. Stiles assumes he smells worse to Peter's heightened sense.

“I need a shower.” He's crashing now, limbs heavy and head fuzzy. The prospect of sleeping with all this grime and mess still caked on isn't a pleasant one.

Peter’s hands come up, one cupping the goose egg on the back of Stiles’ head and the other pressing against his lower back. Stiles moves to tuck his face into the crook of Peter's neck.

He can feel the vibrations  of Peter's words when he says, “we both need one.”

They end up in the bathroom before he really knows what's happening. Peter strips him of his shirt, but hesitates at the fly of Stiles’ shorts. Honestly though, Stiles doesn't want modesty right now. He doesn't want to go through the motions of propriety. Peter probably wouldn't even bother with it if he had his true choice. The sentiment is nice though, that Peter is still willing to listen instead of bulldoze forward.

Stiles brings his fingers to the front of Peter's jeans and starts unbuttoning them in answer to the silent question. Their arms knock into each other, and their shoes get in the way. But it's easy enough to kick those off, toe out of their socks, and step out of the mess of fabric at their feet.  

Stiles catches Peter's hand and tags along when he goes to switch on the shower. The water is cold, then warm, then very warm quickly. He sort of loses time under the steady beat of water against his skin and the smooth stone of the floor.

Peter comes up behind him, hands skimming along his chest. Stiles melts backwards and tips his head back to rest against Peter's shoulder. He doesn't have to see the smokey lines traveling up Peter's forearms to know he's draining pain away. The tension Stiles has been twisted up in unwinds from his muscles and joints; his headache disappears.

He cooperates when Peter washes his hair gently, avoiding the scab forming, barely touching the bruise on the back of his head. When Peter works the shampoo out of his hair, Stiles turns around.

“I’m sorry.” He sways with the motion of Peter reaching for shower gel to lather up his hands. “You got shot because of me.” He presses a hand to Peter's chest, and tears slip from beneath his lashes.

Hushing him, Peter tilts his head, sort of nuzzling Stiles, and makes quiet sound. “Not your fault.”

His mouth catches of Stiles’ cheek, on a scrape there, and Peter licks over it. Angling his head, Stiles reaches up to run his fingers through Peter's hair and bring their lips together while hands rub across his skin, doing a passing job at cleaning. The guilt he feels is still there, but he tries to believe Peter anyway.

He's bone weary except for this building need, like he wants to climb inside Peter and never come back out. The urgency to find something to ground himself with, to reassure himself that this moment is real, is so strong. He presses closer and closer until Peter is moving back, sitting down on the shower seat Stiles never noticed, and pulling him into his lap.

Peter holds onto his hips and kisses down his throat, mouth hot and teeth biting at his skin. Stiles kneels up on the stone ledge, above Peter's thighs, and tugs at Peter's head until they're kissing once more, a slick slide of lips and tongue, breath humid. He realizes all at once that he's hard and rocking against Peter's stomach, but he doesn't stop. Peter's hands are guiding him forward, fingertips tight despite the soap still lingering .

His release hits him like a crashing wave. The euphoria pinging up and down his spine, causing his toes to curl and shudders to roll through his body. Stiles moans into Peter's mouth, lowly, and it's swallowed up by an answering groan as he sags down.

Peter's cock slots up against Stiles’ spent one, a shocky sensation he enjoys. Before he can convince his fingers to let go of Peter's hair, Peter has one of his own hands wrapped around himself. Stiles rests his forehead on Peter's collar bone and watches as he jerks himself off. He drifts, watching the quick rhythm of Peter's fist.

“Stiles, up?” His voice is silky and deep.

When Peter releases his cock and takes Stiles’ hips back in hand, he shifts with the pressure to get up, turn around. For a moment, Peter's palms are the only thing touching him, and Stiles feels like he's got the most fragile tether holding him together. Then, he's being guided backwards, thighs spreading over Peter's lap once more. This time, he's facing the shower head, the water and steam giving the moment a dreamlike quality.

He takes a sharp breath when he's pulled back further and the stiff slide of Peter's cock presses against the top of his ass.

“That's it,” Peter murmurs as he winds an arm around Stiles’ waist, giving the suggestion of a motion that Stiles works back into.

His abs clench and his hips flex as he grinds against Peter's cock. It's a lazy rhythm. He reaches up and hooks his hand behind Peter's head, tipping his own back. When Peter slides his arm up, he grips the firm muscle with his other hand and follows the motion until fingers are curved around his throat.

“Beautiful,” Peter breathes, keeping his hand firm but not restrictive.

The pressure is just enough to make Stiles’ pulse insistent. A reminder that he's alive; they're both alive.

Peter comes against his lower back, barely making a sound. Instead, he bites down on the tendon of Stiles’ neck in a sucking kiss, teeth digging in enough to ache and make him arch up with a gasp. The hand on his throat falls away, down until Peter has him in a bear hug.

Eventually, Stiles finds his feet and they finish cleaning off. The towels they dry off with are thick and soft, and he lies in bed with one tucked around his waist.

Peter crawls in behind him, over him until he covers Stiles from head to toe. Stiles can remember when this sort of thing would have frightened him or pissed him off. Now, the heat radiating off Peter's skin, those dark blue eyes trained so single-mindedly on him, only serve to make him feel safe.

He stretches languidly, so tired and so content.

The smile on Peter's face is approving, dangerous.

Pressing his face into Stiles’ chest, Peter mouths at his skin, at the chain still around his neck with the apartment key—the only thing the Desert Wolf missed in her search. Peter's lips and tongue making designs on his skin send little jolts of arousal down to his cock even though he's too exhausted to want anything more.

“When we find her,” he kisses Stiles’ collarbone. “I'm going to claw her throat open.” Peter licks a broad stripe across the base of Stiles’ neck.

Stiles watches Peter's shoulders shift as he raises up to look him in the eye. “I'm going to rip her heart from her chest for you.” He lowers himself back down, dragging his teeth over Stiles’ sternum.

Gripping the hair at the back of Peter's head, Stiles closes his eyes and whispers, “for both of us.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally gave you guys some sex (kinda). No real kink play in this, because neither of them were in the right headspace for it. But I hope you enjoyed that (plus Stiles' little dilemma with being held captive, and all). <3


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot believe it is finally finished! As always, thanks to DarkHunterJenn & Twisted_Mind for all of their help and support. I also want to thank everyone else who gave me advice and encouragement. Y'all are awesome. <3

He wakes up with anxiety roiling in his gut, unsure if it is due to a dream he can't quite remember, or if it is a result of everything that happened yesterday. Stiles lies there with his eyes closed, heart racing, and tries to calm down. Unfortunately, while he's trying to avoid replaying the altercation with the Desert Wolf, he remembers the arguments with his dad and Scott. Then he starts thinking about how he's going to have to face his dad today and tell him what happened. They're going to be fighting the Desert Wolf _again_ , and soon. Someone he loves could end up dead.

“Hey,” Peter sounds groggy beneath him. His hand comes up and rests between Stiles’ shoulder blades, though it falls away when Stiles sits up. “Did you have a nightmare?”

Stiles covers his face with both hands and releases a long breath. He's fighting past the anxiety, trying not to let it continue to boil up. It takes him a few minutes to feel like he can breathe properly again, and for his heart to slow back to a resting level. Peter is quiet the whole time; Stiles can feel him watching, but is grateful for the space.

Finally, Stiles drops his hands and he looks down at Peter. “I'd apologize, but if we are going to keep ending up in bed together, you're going to have to get used to the night terrors, anxiety, and thrashing in my sleep.” He forces a smile.

Peter runs a palm down Stiles’ spine, tucking his other hand behind his head. “I think I can manage that. You hardly have the market cornered on those things.”

“I've never seen you freak out before.” Stiles moves so he's sitting with his legs folded, knees pressed up against Peter's side.

He doesn't say _unless going on a vengeance fueled murder frenzy is your version_ because he doesn't want to sound spiteful or mean. But Stiles really hasn't seen Peter present any outward signs of anxiety or Post-traumatic Stress Disorder. Given the things he knows Peter has been through, much less anything he _doesn't_ know about, Stiles realizes it is almost impossible for Peter to have made it this far in life without being impacted mentally or emotionally. Maybe werewolves are able to survive high stress and emotionally tumultuous events better than the average human.

Peter is quiet. He stares up at the ceiling and frowns a little. “Almost every night I dream I'm burning alive. I can hear the screams all around me, my pack's and my own. Sometimes I dream about being dead, that I'm still fighting to come back. I'm not always asleep when this happens. So,” He meets Stiles’ eyes, “when I tell you I can handle having you in my bed, heart pounding, and smelling of fear, believe me. Having that is knowing I'm alive and that you are too.”

It's a dangerous thing, being told he means so much. Stiles wants to free fall into the depths of Peter's blue eyes, the dark, inky black of his pupils. Instead, he holds himself back just enough that he won't lose himself in the implications. There's the road he's heading down with Peter, one he is only just beginning to see, and then there is reckless abandon that can only lead to more pain. He has to be cautious.

Stiles doesn't know what to say to Peter's assurance. He fiddles with the sheet lying over his lap and over Peter's waist. Instead of addressing the last part of Peter's little speech, he says, “we’re both kind of fucked up.”

It's a relief, honestly. Hearing it from Peter grounds the idea that others experience similar fallout as him. The brief time he was in Eichen House, Stiles had been forced to participate in group sessions. Everyone was encouraged to talk about what they felt, and how they dealt with the things they went through in life that landed them there. Intellectually, Stiles knows he isn't alone in his experiences, even if most of his are unique due to the supernatural element most of the big events hold. He'd been there when those other kids talked and cried. He'd seen it. But at the time, he hadn't been able to appreciate the evidence before him.

He'd been kind of distracted, to put it lightly.

No one else around him talks about their nightmares or their stress and anxiety. He hasn't asked Scott or Lydia or anyone else. If he does, he's scared he won't be able to handle listening to it, not when it feels like so much of their anguish came about while Stiles was possessed. He has enough self-inflicted guilt. The way some people will flinch around him if he's in a bad mood or didn't get restful sleep is telling.

Peter's experience is just enough removed from Stiles’ situation that it doesn't hurt and it doesn't feel flat. It makes him feel like he has an ally, someone who will accept him with all of his faults and traumas. He thinks he might be able to do that for Peter as well.

Peter laughs, delighted, and the way his eyes close and stay that way for a long moment resonates with Stiles.

“We are.”

Peter looks back at Stiles again, asking with a serious tone, “are you okay with what happened last night?”

Instead of answering right away, Stiles decides to think about it, replay the events of their joint shower. When he does this, he feels warm, a thrill shimmering over his skin at the remembered slide of their bodies together, his release. More than that, he feels _good_ about it.

He's got a history of looking for intimacy after high stress situations. It's not an odd response. He doesn't know if what they did really counts as “sex,” but it was definitely intimate. Before, when he'd sleep with Malia in those circumstances, it would be a frantic and sometimes a rough coming together. He'd come away feeling alive, yet somehow a little hollow. Stiles hadn't felt empty when he went to sleep last night.

“Yeah,” he wets his bottom lip and asks Peter the same question. “What about you? Didn't we break your rule?”

Sitting up, Peter answers, “Extenuating circumstances, I think. But I don't regret it—”

Stiles cuts him off, unable to keep from worrying. “Last time—”

He remembers the way Peter had carefully pushed him away when Stiles tried going for more than a kiss. The ghost of rejection lingers, causing the worry that, despite all appearances and evidence, Peter will take it back—tell Stiles it was a mistake to even consider a more intimate relationship.

And Peter cuts him off too, stopping Stiles’ quick spiral into doubt. He presses a hand to Stiles’ knee.

“Last night wasn't a mistake, not in my eyes. If we had slept together the first time you initiated it, _that_ could have been a mistake. I didn't want you to resent me, and use it as a reason not to trust me because we hadn't talked things through. Now, though, we're on the same page.” His fingers curl lightly over the sheet, rubbing against Stiles’ skin comfortingly. “You aren't having any second thoughts?”

Peter being so concerned and caring is a strange revelation that Stiles never would have expected beforehand. He'd been fine with sticking Peter in a box labeled “kind of evil, definitely selfish” before everything with the Desert Wolf. Stiles wonders what it would have been like to know Peter in a universe where the Hale fire hadn't happened. Would he have been this kind and open without having a thick wall of sass and calculation surrounding him?

“No second thoughts from me.” He leers in an attempt at levity. Peter's returning smirk is rewarding.

Peter turns onto his knees, crowding Stiles until he has to lie back or risk bumping foreheads. The sheet slips away, and the warm brush of skin on skin is nice. When Peter tucks his face into the crook of his neck, Stiles can't help but sigh happily into it, relaxing out of the pit of anxiety and doubt he'd been slipping into.

“Good,” the word vibrates against Stiles’ throat.

Remembering teeth digging into that place, Stiles groans, “God, how big of a mark did you leave?”

He doesn't particularly like hickeys, especially when they can't be hidden by clothing. Stiles can just imagine how much of a fuss his dad and everyone else is going to kick up when they see whatever monstrosity Peter left, the very obvious implications. He runs his fingers through Peter's hair, pushing past the anxiety starting to well up again. The heavy pressure of Peter lying on top of him is something to focus on.

“It's...fairly dark.” Peter pushes up on his forearms to look at Stiles. “I'll try to restrain myself in the future, if it isn't something you enjoy.” He takes Stiles’ hand, the one Stiles had ran through his hair, and kisses his palm.

Stiles sighs, curling his fingers over Peter's cheek. “I'm just thinking about how shitty it's going to be when I have to have this conversation with my dad.” He tilts his head until he can see the alarm clock on Peter's bedside table. “He's probably awake already and freaking the fuck out because I haven't been home. He's off work today, which means I can't even dodge him around that.

“ _Fuck, my phone!_ ” Stiles cuts off his own train of thought when a new one pops into his head. It's going to be expensive to replace _again_.

Pulling back until he's sitting up, Peter says, “don't worry about that. You can call him on mine, if you want.”

Shaking his head, Stiles scrambles into motion. He gets out of bed. “No, I need to go home and face him, tell him what happened before he finds out from anyone else.” He casts about for his clothes, finding them still lying in the bathroom floor.

Shaking out his shorts and pulling them on, Stiles sticks his head out of the bathroom. “Hey,” he heads back into the bedroom, doing up his fly along the way.

Peter is stretched out, sheet haphazardly thrown over his legs. He's reading the back of a beat up paranormal romance novel. Stiles recognized it from the stack he took to Peter while in Eichen.

He plucks it from Peter’s hand, flipping it to look at the cover art. “I can't believe you're still reading these things.” He sits down.

“They're formulaic and trite, but there's something enjoyable about that.” Peter steals the book back and tosses it onto the bedside table where he'd apparently gotten it. He sits up and kisses Stiles’ shoulder. “Besides, the sex scenes are pretty steamy.”

That surprises a laugh out of Stiles, “what are you, some horny housewife?” Pressing his forehead to Peter's neck, he smiles. He likes that Peter is still holding onto those books, enjoying them. “You do you, man.”

Peter's hand comes up to slip around the back of Stiles’ neck. He squeezes lightly. “I could read to you, sometime.” His voice is teasing.

Stiles huffs, pulling back slowly. He really does need to get a move on. “I can only imagine that going two ways, and both are messy.” He smirks, letting Peter interpret that how he likes, then stands back up.

He can hear Peter moving around behind him, and just as he's about to ask to borrow another shirt, one appears in front of him. “I can wash the other one. Or throw it away, whichever.” Peter's nose wrinkles when he looks at the bundle of crusted and dirty clothes Stiles is holding.

“Thanks.” He takes the one Peter hands him and pulls it on. It's a little loose on him, but he knows when Peter wears it, the shirt is tight. A dumb little shiver rolls through him.

“Do you want to eat first?” Peter tugs on a pair of pants while Stiles finishes getting dressed. His hair is still a fluffy mess from sleep and Stiles’ fingers. The invitation is so tempting.

He sighs. “No. I need to get home asap. The longer I'm gone, the worse it will be.”

* * *

 The engine is barely cut off before the front door is opening and Stiles sees his dad, arms crossed, waiting for him.

“Heyyyy,” he gives a lopsided smile, in futile hope to diffuse the situation.

His dad doesn't say anything as Stiles comes inside. Instead, he catches Stiles by the shoulder, one hand coming up to cup his jaw. Stiles can barely stand the concerned and frustrated creases around his dad's eyes.

“Stiles—” he starts, then changes tactics. He looks Stiles’ face over, then down his body as if he might be able to find any other injuries just by sight. “What happened.” It's stern, but not as angry as Stiles expected.

Gently tugging free of his dad's hands, Stiles plops down on the couch. “Got into a little scuffle with the Desert Wolf last night. She took my phone. That's why I didn't call or answer anything last night, if you tried to get ahold of me.”

“What do you mean by a 'little scuffle?’ Stiles, you we're supposed to call me when anything happened. I would have been there. I could have _helped_.”

The way his dad's voice cracks on that last word makes Stiles close his eyes in guilt. He know that is all his dad wants to do, to help his son and keep him as safe as possible.

“It wasn't planned, Dad, I swear. I couldn't have called you anyway. _She took my phone_. And I'm fine, for the most part. Deaton checked me over. Just some scratches and bruises.”

“How did this happen? Did anyone else get hurt? Where is she?” His dad asks in rapid fire.

“Uh, well, Peter got wolfsbane poisoning because the Desert Wolf apparently has no qualms about using laced bullets on other weres.” His dad raises his eyebrows at that. “Peter's okay though.”

Stiles chews on his bottom lip for a second before deciding now is his chance to spin the story in a better light. “He's half the reason I didn't end up worse off, to be honest. The Desert Wolf attacked, shot Peter, and grabbed me. He got us help. I might still be wandering around the woods if he hadn't been able to call the pack.”

Lying and minimizing reported damage is a tactic Stiles has been using with his dad long before the supernatural came into play. Even though he's been attempting to be more truthful with his dad lately, there are times when refraining from sharing all the facts ends up saving them both more heartache. That's why he doesn't talk about being kidnapped, or what it was like to watch someone else get shot. He doesn't share any specifics of the fight.

His dad squints at him, gauging how he feels about what Stiles has just told him and how willing he is to take those words at face value.

He seems to settle into resignation, an attitude he often has. “If you hadn't showed up by ten, I was going to go to Scott's.” Stiles looks down when eyes zero in on the mark on his neck. “But, now, I can see I wouldn't have found you there.”

“Dad—” Stiles stands up abruptly, anger and indignation bubbling up from defensiveness.

“You're eighteen. I can't stop you from dating, not even if I wanted to. However, I do expect some respect and consideration. The very least you could have done was tell me you were staying with Malia.”

That draws Stiles up short for a split second, until he remembers that his dad doesn't know things with Malia ended. Has it really been less that four days since they broke up? He nods his head, relieved by the ready-made excuse. Clearing up the assumption would only make things more strained than they already are.

“Right, yeah. I'm sorry, Dad. I know it was crappy. I should have checked in with you first.”

He sighs, “I—it wasn't Malia I was with last night. We broke up earlier this week. I was with someone else.” He scratches the back of his neck, and heads towards the kitchen, away from the shocked and concerned look on his dad's face.

Even if he isn't ready to tell his dad about Peter, he's willing to be honest about the status of his relationship with Malia. He owes his dad that much.

He can hear his dad following him. A hand lands on his shoulder again, tugging him to a stop. “Hey, kiddo.” His voice is soft, like when he used to look after Stiles’ scrapes and bruises from failed skateboard tricks.

“Dad, it's...not a big deal.” Stiles turns though, leaning his forehead against his dad's shoulder. It's nice to be able to do that. He never wants to lose this.

He's come close too often.

Arms come up around him, hugging him close. “It's your first break-up. That's a big deal.” He speaks softly, warmly.

The pressure on his rib cage makes him lose his breath for a beat. He doesn't react otherwise, ignoring it in favor of the hug. They stand there for several long moments, and Stiles twists his fingers in the faded fabric of his dad's shirt. He really isn't as sad as he expected to be after his first break-up. Probably because he doesn't feel like he's actually lost anything. Malia is still in his life, and they didn't have a bad end to their boyfriend/girlfriend relationship.

So he isn't sad about that. What he's feeling is this ball of nostalgia and melancholy for what he and his dad used to have, for the relationship they could have had. Stiles pulls back, not wanting to continue down that particular path. He pats his dad on the back a few times, and smiles.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Hey, did you eat this morning? Let me make you some eggs.”

Eggs turn into a veggie and cheese omelette with whole wheat toast. His dad cuts the giant six egg omelette in two, and each half goes onto a plate while Stiles butters the toast. They move easily around each other, a lifetime of living together playing out in a single quiet morning ritual.

After they both have their first bites, his dad levels Stiles with a look. “So this new girl? New? I assume? Or is it Lydia?” He sounds a little surprised at even the prospect. When Stiles makes a face at his last suggestion, his dad defends, “you had a crush on her for _years_. It isn't an impossibility.”

Stiles takes a bite of his toast and talks around it. “Not Lydia. That ship sailed a long time ago. And, uh, it's not a girl.”

His dad pauses with a fork full of egg, but then continues eating. He nods. “So a guy, then?”

Stiles can see his dad trying to wrap his head around the idea of him being into guys. Aside from a flat joke about the impossibility of Stiles being gay, they've never talked about sexuality. It'd taken Stiles a while to even realize he was bi, and by that point, announcing it to his dad felt unnecessary.

He's regretting that now.

“Yup,” the last letter pops, because Stiles doesn't know what to say next.

The right thing to do would be to spill the beans about Peter. It's not just a guy, not _some_ guy, but Peter friggin Hale. It's the same guy Stiles’ dad has threatened to shoot on more than one occasion. Derek hadn't even been threatened as much. He doesn't say anything though.

They stare at each other for a long second.

“Alright.” His dad takes a drink of coffee, nodding. “Well, you bring him around some time. If he's important to you, then he's important to me.” He hesitates. “Is he something supernatural?”

“Uh…” Stiles shovels some more omelette into his mouth. He shrugs and smiles, chipmunk cheeks in full force. The tiny scabs on his face pull from the stretch.

With a sigh, his dad mutters, “of course he is.”

Stiles swallows and says, “I guess I have a type.”

 

* * *

 

The first thing Stiles does after showering again and changing into some clean clothes is use his laptop to check the GPS location of his phone. It's still in the preserve where he's pretty sure the hunting cabin is. He writes down the coordinates in case the battery dies or she decides to smash his phone to pieces. Stiles frowns, hoping he will be able to retrieve the phone with minimal damage. He doesn't really have the funds to get another replacement. And the insurance on his phone only covers so much.

Since he's already on his laptop, he takes the opportunity to do a little research. Tab after tab of websites from his Google search open, and Stiles realizes there's way more interest in BDSM than he expected. Even BuzzFeed did a list of BDSM facts. The first tab he reads is, as always, the Wikipedia one. When he gets to the list of types of play, he opens each one in new tabs. After the wiki, he reads the BuzzFeed one, then an article from Psychology Today catches his interest.

He spends hours reading, engrossed in the technicalities and definitions. There's a basic kind of familiarity that he had where he knew BDSM _exists_ , but he hadn't looked further into it  than the dumb jokes older kids sometimes made in middle school. He'd seen something like it in porn a few times, but always clicked out of it, feeling weird about watching someone being hurt for fun. Actively searching and reading about it now opens up a whole new avenue of information.

The overlying thing that appeals to him, when he reads about it, is necessity for communication and consent, _for trust_. When he reads over the deep connection that can form between participants, Stiles can feel his heart start to beat faster. It makes him think about the way Peter has let him see his softer side, while coaxing Stiles into recognizing and working to accept the needy part in himself.

He hadn't used restraint to scare Stiles, not this time or in the usual sense. Even when he'd had Stiles under his power, Peter hadn't abused it. And Stiles wants more of that, he realizes. He wants to experience what it's like to safely let go, forget about the hundreds of possibilities to any given situation. He wants to know what it's like to just exist in the moment.

After that, the specifics seem less important, just a means to an end. Some of them excite him, some of them freak him out. After a while, he decides it's smart to start up a list of Yes/No/Maybes. The Maybe list is longer than the other two, combined.

It feels like hardly any time has passed before someone is knocking on his door. Stiles snaps his laptop closed, blinking against the sting of his dry eyes. The sun is much lower in the sky than he expected when he glances at his window.

Lydia pushes the door open before he has a chance to yell “come in.”

“Were you looking at porn?” She scoffs, arching a brow.

Stiles spins around in his desk chair to face her, cheeks heating. “Hey, porn consumption is a completely healthy activity for people our age. I bet even you watch porn.”

“Not in the middle of the afternoon, with my door unlocked.” Lydia perches on the end of Stiles’ bed. She smirks when he goes a little wide-eyed. “I'm not here to talk about that, obviously.”

“What's up?”

“Well, first of all, since when are you and Peter an item?” She raises both eyebrows, mouth turning down a little.

Stiles grips the armrests of his chair. “Um, what? An item?” He blows air between his lips, like that is the most ridiculous idea ever. Less than ten seconds under Lydia's withering stare, and he wilts. “It's kind of really fucking new. And out of left field, I'll admit.” He scratches his head, wincing when he accidentally touches the tender spot.

Stiles runs a hand over his scalp to soothe to pain. “How did you know? Who else knows?”

He really hopes no one else knows yet. Malia, out of any of them, should be the likeliest to figure it out. However, Stiles is hoping she hasn't been paying close attention, what with Malia's mom showing up to kill her and all.

Lydia crosses her legs. “I started to suspect it last night. But that hickey on your neck gives it away to anyone with eyes and common sense.” She points a lazy finger at him.

He claps a hand on his neck, causing a dull throb to bloom where the bruise is. “Shit. I knew someone was going to connect those dots.” He looks back up at Lydia. “Any chance we can just...not talk about this at all? And to no one else?”

Lydia stares at him. After a long beat, she sighs, “fine.”

Stiles purses his lips, a little confused and skeptical. “You're agreeing awfully easily.”

“Stiles, you can do what you want, with whoever you want. I don't particularly want any of the details, especially if they involve Peter.” She frowns. “You haven't been acting weird, contrary to some people's opinions,” she rolls her eyes, and Stiles has a good idea of who she might be referring to. “Therefore, I assume he isn't mind controlling you.”

“Uh, no. No mind control.” Stiles crosses his arms. “It's nothing like that.”

“Good.” She lounges back on his bed. “How is your head? With as rough as you look now, I'm assuming you couldn't have gotten out of that skirmish without a concussion.”

Stiles runs his fingers lightly over the bump on the back of his skull. It still hurts, but mostly only when he touches it, or if he moves his head too quickly. The Tylenol he took, has done its job.

“A small one. But the nausea and dizziness stopped last night. I think I look worse than I actually am.”

Lydia frowns some more, looking up at Stiles’ ceiling. “I'll be glad when she's taken care of. Too many people have gotten hurt.”

Sliding from his desk chair to the bed, Stiles tucks a leg under himself, and sits down next to Lydia. He rests a hand on her arm. “Yeah.”

They stay like that, quietly breathing. Stiles can't help but wonder if she's going through a mental rolodex of hurts and loss that has happened over the past two years. That's what he's doing.

Lydia sits up, seemingly shaking off the dark thoughts. “Scott wants us to get together tonight and figure out a plan of attack. That's why I'm here. Lucky for you too.” She pulls her purse onto her lap, and rummages inside until she finds what she's looking for. “Come here, so I can do something about that thing. We don't need any unnecessary drama tonight.”

“Did you volunteer, or were you sent?” Stiles can't stop himself from asking as he scoots closer so she can start dabbing concealer on the hickey. He glares at nothing, thinking back to the confrontation he'd had with Scott at the last pack meeting.

“I am not getting dragged into this.” Lydia evens out the makeup and dabs some powder over it. “Look, you both have your disagreements. But tonight, you're going to put them aside and work together like usual.”

Stiles sighs. “I know. I just wish he trusted me enough to listen. Peter is our ally here.” When Lydia gives him a chiding look, Stiles says, “okay, okay. Fine. What time are we supposed to be there? My dad is coming, and so is Peter. I need time to let both of them know.”

 

* * *

 

Peter is standing outside when Stiles pulls up. He's dressed in jeans and a thin, white T-shirt with a scoop neck that exposes his thick neck and shoulders. Stiles’ mouth goes a little dry at the sight. He jumps out of the Jeep after parking.

“Going somewhere?” Stiles asks as he walks over.

“I just got back, actually. Then I heard you coming.” Peter smiles.

“Good timing. Trying to track you down would have sucked. Scott's calling a meeting at six. You're invited.” Smirking, Stiles crosses his arms and watches as Peter lifts a brow.

“By Junior Alpha, or by you?”

Stiles huffs. “Both of us. But you've got a direct invite from Scott, tonight.”

It's a little bit of a stretch, but Lydia hadn't contradicted him when he said the thing about bringing Peter. He meets Peter's skeptical look, and shrugs.

“Well, that makes things easier. Speaking of which, this is for you.” Peter hands off the small bag he'd been holding. It's got the AT&T logo on the side, and Stiles’ stomach swoops when he realizes what must be inside.

“Dude, I can get my phone back.” He chews on his lip, accepting the bag anyway. When he peeks inside, he's nervous as to what he'll find. “This is unnecessary.”

Instead of the latest gen iPhone or something equally outlandish, he finds a box with a sticker proclaiming the Android phone inside to be refurbished. Relief washes over him at the sight. At least the phone wasn't crazy expensive.

“I thought you'd prefer one like the one you had. And you seem oddly attached to your Android, even though iPhones are much better.” Peter looks proud of himself, either for the dig, or for making the right decision on phone selection. It's probably both.

Popping the box open and pulling the phone out of the little plastic casing, Stiles snorts. “You're such a fucking snob. All Apple people are snobs.” He looks back up at Peter. “You seriously didn't need to do this.” His thumb runs over the power button.

The temptation is strong. Just going a day without his phone was hard. Last time he'd lost a phone thanks to his side gig as human punching bag, he'd gone a week without one. So it's manageable, of course. Communication is a lot harder that way though.

But accepting a phone, something so integral to his everyday life, from Peter feels like it could hide strings or conditions. He doesn't want to owe Peter for anything else, and he sure as shit doesn't like the idea of Peter having leverage over him. At this point, Stiles is comfortable believing Peter wouldn't try manipulating him with the phone, but that doesn't mean he's cool with being in a position where it's _possible_.

“Here,” he slips the phone and box back into the bag, handing it to Peter. “It's a nice gesture. But I can take care of it myself.”

Peter hooks a finger under the handles, but doesn't take the bag back. “If it makes you uncomfortable, you can give it back once you get your old phone or get a new one. You need a phone now though, Stiles. If for simple logistics, alone.”

“Fair.” Stiles looks down at the bag, their hands less than an inch apart. He licks his bottom lip. “I'm going to connect it to my current line. And if I turn it on, and your number is pre-programmed in, I'm not using it at all. I'm not falling for any stalker shit.

He's only half joking.

Peter lets go of the bag with a smile. “ _Fair_.”

Stiles grins. After getting the phone back out, he holds his other hand out. “Gimme your phone so I can do this.”

Peter complies, unlocking his snooty iPhone with his thumb print. “I wouldn't even need gps to find you, you know. I'm a werewolf. Heightened senses.” He flickers his beta blue eyes to underline his point. What a fucking asshole.

Biting back a laugh, Stiles connects to the AT&T website and logs in. “And there's season one Creepy Peter.” He rolls his eyes.

He can feel when Peter moves closer, can see the toes of Peter's boots shuffle forward. “Mm, but I seem to remember how much you enjoyed it when I chased you.”

Stiles looks up from below his lashes, heat rushing through him at Peter's tone. “Yeah, that was before you ended up with a bullet in the chest, and me trying to recall my lock breaking skills.”

It takes less than five minutes to activate the new phone. Once he's finished, he logs out of Peter's and clears the history out of habit.

“Thanks.” He gives Peter his phone back.

“It's not a problem. I'm glad you accepted it. Can I put my number in now?” He's got a teasing smile when Stiles hands the new phone to him.

When Stiles goes to lean against the car as he waits, and he must move wrong because his side breaks out in a tight hot pain that makes it difficult to breathe for a second. He makes a tiny sound, and then Peter's hand is spanning over his side. Spidery grey and black lines crawl up his forearm and disappear.

“Ow,” he complains belatedly, once he has his voice back. The pain is already gone, a spreading warmth replacing it. “Maybe pain play isn't such a great idea, if I'm going to keep needing Tylenol and werewolf mojo to deal with this kind of shit.” He winces, taking a step aside once he feels better.

“Different kind of pain, and it would be voluntary.” Peter runs his hand down Stiles’ arm in a simple, possessive gesture that makes Stiles want to lean into him.

He doesn't do that though, because they should be heading towards Scott's house now. His dad might even be there already. Stiles pulls the folded sheet of paper out of his pocket. It's the one he made his lists on.

“Uh, speaking of all that,” he tears the coordinates off the top of the page, and pockets it before handing the rest over. “I did a little of that homework you gave me.”

Peter glances down at what's written on the paper, and carefully folds it back up then slips it into a pocket. He steps closer, until they're chest to chest.

“Did you like what you found?” Peter asks quietly, eyes intense.

Stiles gets caught up in that stare. “A lot more than I thought I would.”

Peter places his hands on the car behind Stiles, boxing him in, and leaning in close, so close. Against his ear, Peter confesses, “I want to kiss you so much right now.”

Want courses through Stiles, because he very much desires the same thing. But when he tilts his head to close those final few centimeters, Peter tips his head back in the sexiest rejection possible. He knows it too, judging by the expression on Peter's face.

“Don't want to start anything we can't finish though.” Peter leans back in just far enough to inhale close to Stiles’ neck, almost scenting him.

Stiles definitely whines. “You are not fair. This is not fair.”

“Sorry, darling. I'm pretty sure you don't want to walk into a pack meeting smelling like lust and me right now.” Peter takes a slow step back, eyes raking over Stiles.

“Ugh. _Logic_.” Stiles sighs.

Peter eyes him, still smiling faintly. “I'm a little offended that you covered up my mark, but I assume you did it for the sake of our relationship's current secrecy. That, and not wanting to raise any questions from nosy pack members.” His smile turns into a mean little smirk.

Stiles shrugs one shoulder, not confirming or denying since Peter knows anyway. “Lydia,” is all he says.

 

* * *

 

His dad, bless him, takes point on the pack meeting. When Stiles walks inside next to Peter, Scott and Liam exchange a cryptic look that leaves a sour note in Stiles’ mouth. His dad must notice, because he jumps right in, pulling everyone's attention to him. Scott doesn't get a chance to voice any of his concerns about Peter. His dad is more than fine with Peter being on the front line tonight.

Stiles knows Scott has plenty of reason to be uneasy around Peter, but they've all done shady shit. Granted, Peter went much further, more often, than any of them. These days, though, it's a matter of weighing the risk against the reward. Even if Scott only has Stiles’ word to trust on the matter, Scott ought to recognize Peter is an asset in this situation. He should trust Stiles’ judgement after everything they've been through together. He wouldn't willingly put Scott, or any of their loved ones, in danger.

In Scott's eyes, Peter should be completely expendable, and, therefore, Scott should stop complaining every step of the way. Stiles can't help but be annoyed with him for standing his ground on the topic of Peter killing the Desert Wolf. The fact that he doesn't know if Scott's objection is purely a moral one or if it's colored by Scott's history with Peter makes Stiles’ annoyance all the worse. Knowing that Scott's reluctance might be a direct reflection of his trust in Stiles, more than anything else, makes Stiles ache inside with betrayal.

“You don't have to _kill_ her though.” Scott stresses, obviously frustrated. He looks around the room for back-up. When his gaze lands on Stiles’ dad, he tries, “you're not okay with this, plan, right?”

“She needs to be stopped. She's a murderer and a contract killer on top of that.” Stiles’ dad sighs. “I'm sure the FBI wants her, at the very least.” When Scott starts looking victorious, he continues with a weariness in his voice that pulls at Stiles. “But they haven't been able to find her yet. And she's got supernatural strength and stamina. I'm not going to outright condone killing her, especially without a fair trial. I’m not going to stick my head in the sand on this either, though. What if she kills one of you?”

That draws Scott up short. Everyone in the room looks uneasy. Stiles chews at his thumb,anxiety and low-key anger swirling inside. When Malia leans into his side, Stiles takes a deep breath and tells himself everything will be okay.

“No one here is going to die,” Kira states with a determination Stiles admires. She sighs, and turns to Scott. “I think we should do what they suggested.”

Scott opens and closes his mouth, realizing everyone else in the room is on board with the plan. He holds Stiles’ gaze, silently imploring him. Stiles sighs, and wills Scott to understand.

Malia jumps in, asking a question about how they plan to lure the Desert Wolf out, but Stiles doesn't hear it. He's focused on Scott, on the chasm stretching between them.

 

* * *

 

 “You've done this before, right?” Lydia asks, following Stiles as he lays out mountain ash lines.

Stiles watches where he's walking, following the beam of light from Lydia's phone. “Yeah. I was practicing throwing circles last night.”

Lydia hums. “When you were attacked.”

“Yeah,” Stiles frowns. “But the point is, I managed it, so ya know.” He holds up his hand, crossing two fingers in a universal sign for good luck. He smiles when Lydia scoffs.

“I hate these woods,” she declares, flipping her hair back over her shoulder. “Nothing good ever happens here.”

Stiles has to agree for the most part. Looking around, the woods are eerily quiet. The moon is almost at its fullest, shining through the trees. Sunset was an hour ago, and the sky is inky black now with a smattering of stars visible through the dim light pollution of Beacon Hills to the east.

He and Lydia are by themselves, technically. But Peter and Scott are lurking deeper in the woods. Everyone is fanned out from where Stiles is marking off a section with the mountain ash. Right now, Malia should be closing in on the hunting cabin, Kira close behind her as backup. The plan is for Malia to lure the Desert Wolf into Stiles’ trap.

As if on cue, Lydia grabs Stiles by the arm. “It's go time.” She's looking straight ahead.

Just as Stiles looks up, he sees Malia sprinting through the trees. “Shit, she's on the wrong side!” Stiles throws his handful of mountain ash down, willing it to finish the line, then pushes out with his mind and spark until the barrier breaks for Malia. “Go!” He hisses to Lydia, shoving her out of the trap and out of harm's way.

Two gunshots go off, loud banging sounds that echo around the preserve. Stiles looks around wildly, still not seeing the Desert Wolf. Malia turns around to face the way she just came, exchanging a look with Stiles.

“You didn't get rid of the gun?” Stiles hisses uselessly. He can see Peter moving behind Malia, barely fifty feet away. “Fuck, fuck, fuck

Who did she shoot?” At Malia, he yells, “get out!”

Malia shakes her head no, taking steps backwards until she's closer to Stiles, shielding him.

“This isn't the pl—” Stiles stops, because the Desert Wolf is there, stalking into view with determination.

She still has the gun in hand. She's only got eyes for Malia at first, until she looks over and spots Stiles. “ _You_.” Her lip curls with derision, fangs sharp, glinting. “I'm going to kill you, then I'm going to take my power back,” she swings her gaze to Malia.

It feels like everything is slow motion when he watches her lift the gun up and point it at him. The complete hated written on her face makes him flinch. Movement to the side, a hazy blur, and Stiles is snapping into action.

Malia shouts angrily. Peter has rushed into the incomplete circle, heading straight for the Desert Wolf, blue eyes blazing. Reacting on instinct, Stiles lets his spark rise up and push the ash line closed. He can feel the subtle sizzle of the completed trap. It's overshadowed by the bright, almost blinding experience of sending tendrils of pain, like shards of glass, into the Desert Wolf's head.

He bares his teeth when she goes to her knees before Peter reaches her. Stiles twists the magic, slicing and cutting in all her tender places. Vaguely, he notes the muzzle flash as the gun goes off again, a wide shot into the woods. He can't hear anything but the silent agony he is squeezing out of his prey.

Images flash through his head. Malia ripped in two, Peter eaten up with poison, Scott beheaded. He can see himself lying on the ground, eyes torn out and limbs popped from their joints. Each one makes the anger and fear inside ratchet up, causing him to dig deeper and deeper inside the Desert Wolf's head. He doesn't know if those scenes are bleed through from her, or his own worst imaginings.

Time snaps back, collapsing on itself. The tension he'd been cording goes limp, and Stiles groans at the sharp bounce back of his spark. He gasps, blinking, and taking in the present. The scenes that had been playing in front of his eyes, all his loved ones dead, vanish.

Peter is covered in blood, the white of his shirt barely visible anymore. He's breathing heavily, staring down at the mangled body of the Desert Wolf. Her eyes are wide, frozen with fright. Her throat is a mess of dark liquid and white bone where claws had ripped through.

Stiles can feel his stomach turning, cold sweat breaking out. He looks away from the body, back at Peter. Slowly, he traces down Peter's shoulders and arms until he finds the muscle clutched in Peter's hand. He imagines he can see the power Peter absorbed from his kill

There's movement all around them now, people rushing forward. Malia looks shell shocked, but it barely registers to him. Instead, he breaks the trap with barely any thought, allowing the other werewolves inside.

He watches as Peter squeezes his fingers, digging his claws deep into the heart, then drop it to the ground. Stiles swallows thickly, looking up at Peter who has turned toward him. The fight, if it could even be classified as such, couldn't have taken more than five minutes. Time has a funny way of slowing down and speeding up as the brain perceives what is happening.

Stiles aches all over, as much from the physical reminders of last night as from the mental exhaustion it took to drive his spark as hard and calculated as he had. Absentmindedly, he swipes his hand under his nose, smearing blood across his skin. The copper tang on his tongue feels primal and victorious.

Malia is safe. Everyone is alive. The Desert Wolf is dead. Stiles and Peter both kept their promises.

He grins at Peter, manic, and takes off through the woods. People shout after him, but he doesn't stop. He keeps running, thighs burning, side pulling wrong. He runs through all of it, laughter pushing out from his diaphragm. They're alive.

He doesn't know how far he gets or how long he runs. He trips several times, but never goes down all the way. Tears streak his cheeks, rolling down in fat beads that mix with the sweat on his skin. Everything hurts, but he can _feel_ it.

It isn't until he comes to the nemeton that Stiles stops. He sees the wide, seemingly dead stump and stumbles closer. His spark kindles anew, lighting him up from the inside. It wants closer to this powerful, ancient thing. Stiles doesn't even think about it before he sets a knee on it, then crawls to the middle.

Calm overtakes him then, as he settles on his knees, hands at his side. He can feel the very tips of the nemetons roots, the deepest ones that are still in the ground. The hurt that echoes through him and bounces back from the nemeton brings fresh tears to his eyes though he feels no anguish.

“Stiles,” Peter says his name, drawing his attention slowly. He's chased Stiles the whole way, keeping pace with him and allowing Stiles to go his own way.

“Peter,” his voice cracks as he looks at the man before him.

Peter covered in someone else's blood, untold lives taken by his hand, all in the name of retribution. He's an ancient king without a throne, made to live under another's rule. The eldest living Hale. One of the last of his lineage, and no alpha left from the once thriving pack.

Stiles can feel the nemeton calling to him, these dark whispers in his head. Derek's face flashes before his eyes, followed by Cora, Laura, Talia, then face after face he doesn't recognize. He reaches a hand out, as the magic builds up in his chest. It's a hot spike in his heart that radiates outward until it feels like he's going to explode if he can't release it correctly.

Peter moves closer, claws, fangs, and electric blue eyes shifted still. Stiles thinks he must say his name again, but the blood rushing, like two heart beats, in his ears drowns out everything. His vision goes sepia, and he screams as the fire rips through him, channeling through his body.

Stiles blinks slowly as darkness crowds all around, tunneling. The last thing he sees is Peter reaching out for him, eyes red.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you've enjoyed this fic, please let me know if you did.

**Author's Note:**

> My [tumblr](http://the-redcrate.tumblr.com).
> 
> Title from “The Chain” by Fleetwood Mac  
>  _Listen to the wind blow_  
>  down comes the night  
> Running in the shadows  
> damn your love, damn your lies
> 
>  Notes:
> 
> •Stiles/Malia (SPOILER): there is no on screen sex. I try to be fair & respectful of Malia. The relationship lasts a few chapters, but it does end. Nothing sexual happens between Peter and Stiles before Stiles/Malia ends.
> 
> •I go divergent after season four. Creative license has been taken with canon details.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Please use your best judgement in continuing to read if any of the triggers mentioned here might cause you discomfort.
> 
> •Ableist language: Stiles uses a lot of insults about Peter being crazy/psychotic and also refers to Peter as a "vegetable." I feel like it is level to the type of thing seen on Teen Wolf, but I wanted to tag just in case any of the insults we're particularly upsetting to anyone.
> 
> •Suicide Ideation: Stiles wonders if Peter has considered suicide. It is heavily implied that at one point Stiles was suicidal.
> 
> •Non-consensual Touching: Peter is a really touchy guy in general when it comes to Stiles. Stiles isn't always totally onboard with that.
> 
> •Invasion of Privacy: Peter texts Stiles' dad and Scott on Stiles' phone without asking first. Stiles breaks into Peter's apartment and takes things.
> 
> •Non-consensual Bondage: Chapter six; Peter holds Stiles down and doesn't let him up, even when Stiles tells him to and fights it.  
> •Dom/sub undertones: neither Peter or Stiles talk about the scene or that it is fact a scene. Subspace is implied, but never expressly named. 
> 
> I would like to note here that D/s and BDSM are not inherently unhealthy. However, at this point in the fic, it is being used in a dubious and unhealthy manner (no matter the spirit in which it was intended). Things like this should always be discussed before hand, and everyone involved should be fully consenting (discussion should actually be ongoing before, during—by using safe words and obeying the use of safe words, and after a scene).
> 
> •Dubious Consent: Stiles relents to being held down, and subconsciously enjoys it in the moment.
> 
> Specified Links Stiles reads: 
> 
>  
> 
> [BDSM Wikipedia](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/BDSM)  
> [BuzzFeed article](https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.buzzfeed.com/amphtml/caseygueren/ultimate-guide-to-bdsm)  
> [Psychology Today article](https://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/all-about-sex/201206/loving-introduction-bdsm)


End file.
